


Kalos Machina

by CCNSurvivor



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:16:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 117,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Steampunk AU Retelling*Christine Daaé is expected to build her own life at the Palais Garnier. But she's an oddity, an almost perfect person at a time where machines have replaced manual labour and new inventions have been harnessed to eradicate all flaws. At the heart of Paris, she catches the eye of a disfigured genius who has been driven underground for being an oddity himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Paris,1882_

The train was slowly pulling into the black hole that had gradually been creeping closer for the past hour. Although it attracted many excited whispers of her fellow passengers, Christine Daaé determinedly kept her eyes on the hands that were resting in her lap. Occasionally, her fingers would collect the simple blue fabric of her dress and rub it between their tips in a habit that betrayed her nervousness. But at least the motion was familiar; a faint ray of hope that dared to pierce the darkness of this strange, new life.

As the train gently veered right or left, her simple childhood in Sweden seemed an eternity ago. In this country there were vehicles as high as houses, kept cool by a steady stream of air blown into each compartment. In this country there were fancy crystal glasses filled with rainbow coloured liquids, there were children eagerly whispering about Ferris Wheel rides and animal automatons. But she knew she had to be brave, if not for her then at least for the sake of her father who –on his deathbed- had given her very clear instructions of who to contact upon his demise. She knew that he had done everything in his power to make certain she'd be well looked after, and yet she couldn't help but feel terrified of this new start that awaited in a city which loomed dark and dangerous even from afar.

As the train further decreased its speed, Christine hesitantly lifted her head again to glance outside. The scene before her hadn't changed greatly. The sky was still black; occasionally red zeppelins would push their way through the thick mass before the blackness swallowed up their twinkling lights once more. Upon first glance, Christine had believed the city to be caught in the eye of a terrible storm, but when the darkness had stayed quite the same she had realised with a sinking feeling that it was the city itself that had created this monstrosity.

Now that they were close to the heart of Paris, she could see smoke thick like tar billowing out of large factory chimneys and slick, white, six-wheeled automobiles sliding smoothly through cobble stone streets. It was all too wild and too extravagant, nothing like the tranquillity of the Swedish countryside she had grown up in. But she could not afford to think of that now, not when she was so close to reaching her destination.

The train lurched forward sharply, then slowed down considerably as it eased itself under the dome of the station. All around her, passengers jumped to their feet, wrestling their luggage out of the various compartments. The thrum of voices grew and grew until it reached a deafening volume. Christine watched them closely, as if absorbing every detail would enable her to acquire some of their happiness also.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the speakers mounted on either side of the carriage doors crackled to life.

"Ladies and Gentleman, we have now arrived at _Gare de Lyon_. _Gare de Lyon_ , our final destination, all disembark!"

The voice was soft and melodic and yet Christine prayed for a bit of silence, for some peace of mind to digest everything she had witnessed so far. But everything here seemed to be moving at a much faster pace and so she reluctantly did her best to follow. Shifting into the aisle, she lowered the bag that contained her belongings with much effort and then joined the queue of people clambering down the ladder from the third level of the train. The engine belched up white steam that fogged up the windows above which had already taken a smattering of rain and finally settled on the platform below. During her descent, Christine clung on to the rungs of the ladder with one hand and to her bag with her other, not daring to look at the white mist that played around her ankles.

When at last her feet came in contact with concrete stone, she breathed a sigh of relief and then hurriedly moved on to make space for the passengers that had been following. As the people around her embraced each other in greeting or determinedly strode off to their next destination, Christine found herself a quiet spot in a corner, opened her bag and consulted the letter she had received from the conservatoire of the _Palais Garnier_.

The management had offered her a brief but concise list of directions and she viewed it as her first test to follow them successfully. If she should get lost, surely someone would be kind enough to point her towards the Opera, she could not imagine that her father had overestimated its popularity.

Stuffing the letter back into the depth of the bag, she hesitated one last time and glanced outside. Nothing but large, black shadows were visible through the layer of condensation, shadows that were blurred in an inky whirlpool as fresh moisture ran down the sharp windows. Christine shivered and tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, forcing herself to set one foot in front of the other lest she be permanently frozen in fear otherwise. The bright bulbs mounted around the exit signs at the station pointed the way and she followed their lead until she found herself outside on the pavement, rain matting down her hair. Remembering the instructions, she took a left down to the Seine.

It seemed impossible to find a single piece of land – or water for that matter – that wasn't occupied somehow. Steam hissed into the air and mingled with the groaning of the wind, automobiles and odd automated bicycles whizzed through the streets and fat boats propelled forwards by spiked dragon wings honked and boomed dully in passing. Nothing could have prepared her for this level of noise, nothing could have prepared her for the oppressive ugliness of the city.

All these inventions were remarkable, of course, yet they could not hide the fact that the city had been neglected otherwise. Dirt was caked on the pavement on which she walked and beggars caught hold of her skirts at regular intervals, tugging at them and pleading with her for some coin. Denying them felt dreadful, but she had hardly any money herself, let alone something extra to spare. In the end, she tilted her chin upwards and pretended not to see the human waste washed up at her feet, pretended not to feel their hands grabbing for her attention.

Instead, she focused on the outline of a cathedral that was rising stoically through the clouds. This was _Notre Dame de Paris_ , this was something familiar. Smiling relieved, Christine strode forward faster, her eyes feasting on every ordinary stone she could find. But it, too, seemed to have been diminished into nothing more than a cheap spectacle, a reminder of a simplistic past. Balloons lazily drifted in the air around the two proud towers, flashes of light momentarily illuminating the scene as curious tourists took photograph after photograph.

The closer she got to the _Palais Garnier_ the larger the crowds around her became. Small men in oversized, black coats wearing top hats that exposed the metal skeleton beneath. Young women in well-crafted boots and silver corsets, the little fur coats around their shoulders hiding more than the stockings and suspender belts they wore from the waist down. It was all so peculiar and indecent, that Christine felt a blush rise to her cheeks and hurried to avert her eyes.

But it proved impossible not to bump into one another as the mass swelled and determinedly drove northwards, like cattle being herded in one direction only. Christine saw thick prosthetic arms, bare muscle revealed between unfeeling strands of metal. Curious glances followed her everywhere and she could hardly blame them, for she was an oddity, seemingly the only person wholly consistent of flesh and bone. Harsh whispers followed her all the way up the _Avenue de_ _l'Opéra_ , condemning her, judging her. But in an uncharacteristic move, Christine straightened her spine and continued walking without paying them the attention they craved. After all, it was hardly her fault that they had chosen to eradicate every last flaw that had made them human and cover it up with clever mechanisms and gold and gemstones instead.

The closer the grand building with its golden angels came, the easier she found it to breathe. Not only was it reminiscent of the old and the safe way of life she was accustomed to, but it also brought back fond memories of her beloved father who had praised the architectural design so fervently it bordered on obsessive. To him, this had been the one true shrine to music and even when his body had started to fail him had he held on to the belief that she would find her sanctuary there also. Beneath Apollo's lyre she would master her voice and woo the masses.

The rain had slowed down to a drizzle now and the last brave drops smacked down on the marble that surrounded her as she climbed the stairs towards the main entrance. Self-consciously, she raked a hand through her hair, smoothing down the dark curls as best as she could. She adjusted her cloak around her thin frame and, collecting all her courage, she pushed the heavy doors open.

Somehow she had expected something earth-shattering to happen, yet the hall which she entered was silent and empty, so silent in fact that her footsteps echoed eerily all around her. She turned on the spot once or twice, before steadying herself on the cool, light stone. Was this a tomb, she wondered? Had anyone caressed the marble as she was doing now? Had other hearts beaten as frantically as hers was doing at the sight of it all? It seemed unlikely when considering the pristine state of the hall.

Shaking herself out of her stupor, Christine selected one of the many stairs and climbed it to enter the next room. Large candelabras glistened on either side of an even larger staircase. Their light was reflected in the smooth, cool marble, basking the entire room in its hues. She held on to one of the rails that was at least twice the size of her hand and slowly made her ascent, taking in the masterpiece around her. She could hardly imagine how much time such detailed work must have taken.

"Are you lost, Mademoiselle?"

The cold voice seemed to resound all around her, startled her enough to drop her bag.

"I'm here to join the conservatoire?" she offered, her own voice trembling terribly as she scrambled to pick up her bag once more. In the distance, she could hear the click of heels drawing closer. "My name is Christine Daaé."

She straightened herself, extending her hand automatically as she did so but nearly flinched away once more when she found herself face to face with a woman whose dark eyes were framed by strange silver wires and a series of minuscule wheels that seemed to connect to the back of her head where they disappeared beneath a strict bun. Upon closer inspection Christine would come to learn that the eyeball itself seemed to have been manufactured from thin mirror-like glass that had been tinted at the centre to create the effect of an iris and a pupil. For now, however, the whole appearance was foreign enough to make her avert her eyes.

"Then the auditorium is hardly the place for you," the woman remarked. She seemed to be scolding her though Christine could not see what she might have done to warrant it. "Come, come now girl, use your legs and don't dawdle, we don't have the whole day."

Holding her bag close to her chest, Christine nodded diligently and followed the woman as she climbed the staircase.

"I am Madame Giry, the box keeper. And let me give you one piece of advice," she swiftly silenced her with a wave of the hand, "nobody here has time to guide you. You are expected to learn your own lessons. If you are fast and humble you will make it far, perhaps even catch the eyes of the managers or better. But if you fall behind, rest assured no-one will miss you here."

Christine swallowed against the lump in her throat and did not dare utter another word. Somehow this safe haven was beginning to look as unfriendly as the city that surrounded it, and she did not know if she was cut out for a life like this.


	2. Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville, 1839

  _Chapter 1: Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville_

_1839_

Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville was like any other sleepy little village in the rest of France. Its old houses were considered charming by the city folk that was already beginning to feel the changes of the industrial revolution. The movement had swept from England into Belgium and from there on swiftly infiltrated the country, conquering the capital easily but leaving most of its inhabitants reeling from the shock of so much novelty.

Boscherville had largely remained untouched by all of this, primarily because the people had refused to adapt to the change. Merchants had come and gone, trying in vain to sell their products and inventions and every Sunday Father Mansart preached to the crowd about the evils of steam power. Mechanisation, so he firmly believed, would seduce the people into idleness.

Boscherville might have been cosy and intimate, but it did not willingly embrace anything that differed from the norm. Perhaps it was unsurprising then that Madeleine and her son Erik had been driven to the outskirts of the village. Her conservative upbringing made her doubtful of the rapid progress that was taking over the land, making a move unthinkable, yet her son's appearance made it impossible to live an ordinary life in their own village.

The child had been born eight years prior with a horrible deformity that covered most of his face. The midwife, so the rumour went, had been so appalled at her hand in the birthing of this monstrosity that she had taken her own life. Though Father Mansart believed to be staring at the devil himself whenever he drew near young Erik, his Christian faith compelled him to show compassion and provide aid to the poor mother who – after the loss of her husband – had now been further burdened. It had been him who had lent the child his name and him who had convinced Madeleine to move to the outskirts. Within the village he could not have guaranteed her safety, especially not when young Erik began to grow and develop a mind of his own. Out there, however, nobody was around to take offense to the screams that emanated from the cottage almost daily.

"Erik, I am not going to ask you again. Come down here and have your supper!" Madeleine shouted.

Most boys would have assembled at the table already, their cheeks a healthy red colour from playing outside, their bellies rumbling with hunger. But sadly, Erik was anything but ordinary.

At times when she thought about him, she could feel a bare emptiness in her body as if the space he'd inhabited throughout her pregnancy would never be filled again. At times she even wondered if he had hollowed out her heart as well.

"Erik!"

At last he appeared on the old wooden stairs, his tall stature forcing him to take on a hunched position already. Soon, he'd be as tall as his father had been, Madeleine thought with a pang of pain, what a shame he did not resemble him in any other way.

"Come and sit down," she sighed.

She could feel his strange yellow eyes staring at her, challenging her to look back at him, but she was not willing to enter the stalemate that the eye contact would most certainly create. Instead, she plated their food and sat down herself, praying that she would not have to ask him again.

At last, the light shuffle of his footsteps resounded, his shoes scuffing the wooden floorboards at every alternate step in a way that unnerved her. He was toying with her, punishing her because she had refused to play his game. She squeezed her eyes shut, suppressed a shudder, but she felt him drawing closer and closer, like a predator stalking its prey.

"I am not hungry, mother."

His voice was a strange series of flat notes, completely lacking affect of any kind. It seemed to whisper across her neck, yet when she opened her eyes, he had taken his seat opposite her at the table. His amber eyes were gleaming with triumph.

"I don't care, Erik, you will eat it by yourself or I will force it down your throat!" They both knew she was bluffing, that even at eight years old Erik surpassed her in strength. "You already resemble a corpse. Do you truly wish to have the body of one?"

When he flinched she felt a fleeting spark of achievement. Reminding him of his own ugliness was the only way she knew to control him.

Firmly, he gripped his knife and fork and began shovelling huge portions of food into his mouth, the only part the little white mask did not cover. Madeleine tried to focus on her own meal but the crunching of fresh vegetables and squishing of potatoes and gravy made her lose her appetite.

"Close your mouth while you chew," she instructed coolly, "you are not an animal!"

"I can't breathe otherwise, mother," he argued, taking a theatrical gulp of air, remnants of food discolouring his teeth.

Her own hands were gripping the cutlery so firmly now that her knuckles turned white. Perhaps he was truly struggling or perhaps he was just trying to win her sympathy, but any reminder of that horrible face that made a mockery out of her marriage to Charles filled her with nothing but anger and dismay.

"Go to your room!" she bellowed when the tears that stung in her eyes threatened to spill over.

Erik remained stoically seated, lifting another mouthful of food to his twisted, lifeless lips.

"Go now before I forget myself!"

She sprang up so suddenly that the chair she had been sitting on toppled over. But the insolent boy only lifted his head slowly, studied her with a mixture of boredom and apathy. Madeleine planted her hands on the table between them and then raised one to smack him across the face. The mask shifted along, revealing raw open cheek and one childish eyes that widened in shock and in pain.

"I hate you," he stated firmly; his voice did not betray him although his body shook. She did not doubt his words, for she hated herself.

He rose slowly with a kind of elegance that disguised his anguish, towered over her and then walked away and upstairs with slow determined steps. The sobs tore free the minute she heard the door slam shut, and she sank down to her knees, fumbling for the cross that hung around her neck. Whispering a frantic prayer she kissed it and closed her eyes. May God forgive her for her sins and her terrible thoughts, for everyday she wondered what would be worse: murder or suicide.

* * *

The next morning she unlocked Erik's door to bring him his breakfast before she ventured into the village. She had expected him to still be asleep because he never much liked rising early and she had given up trying to force him. But today he was seated on the floor in the middle of his room, his hand moving frantically as he was drawing something upon a piece of paper before him. She did not greet him, nor try to see anything beyond his charcoal stained fingers, knowing that he would not hear her.

He could be terribly unpredictable, violent even, when he was consumed by boredom, but when sketching or playing music it was as if he went somewhere else entirely. Nothing captured him quite like the arts that seemed to form the very foundation of his existence. Father Mansart had taken to this development rather fondly, as if his capacity for beauty somehow redeemed him, and had encouraged her to supply him with fresh material to settle his troubled spirit. Although she did not believe the priest to be right at all times, she did like to take his advice since it lifted some of the responsibility from her own shoulders.

Silently, she backed out of the room again, closed the door and slid the lock into place. Then she retrieved her scarf and her basket and made her way out of the cottage and into the village. Nature around her was in full bloom and the air was rich with the scent of pine trees. But Madeleine did not possess an eye for that, nor for the warm sunshine that filtered through the trees on either side of her. Perhaps Charles would have found a way to pique her interest, but without him even this small country lane became a painful reminder of a life long ago abandoned. Charles would have known what to do with Erik or at the very least been able to protect her when she had to run errands like these.

Orphaned, that's what she had felt like after the accident that had cost him his life. And it was true, there was no more family to speak of and all the friends she'd once had, who had been happy to be entertained at her house before, had turned their back on her the minute Erik had been born. At times she did not know who she loathed more, that hideous boy or the people who had simply started fading away. She was grateful that Father Mansart had not abandoned them also, although he had other matters to attend to and could only visit once a week, requiring her to walk into the village by herself. He wasn't very happy about that and she could not blame him. The villagers could easily become a violent mob, threatening her with something much more hurtful than the jeers and insults they usually flung her way. But she needed to buy food and there simply was no other way.

The wind sharpened around her, whispered across the forest's warm, rich soil and every crackling of twigs sounded like footsteps and every shadow as the trees swayed to and fro became a dangerous stalker. Madeleine quickened her steps, ran almost until the path cleared and Boscherville lay bare and exposed before her. With sweaty hands she adjusted the scarf around her shoulders before beginning the descent.

Loneliness was quite enough to drive a person out of their mind and Madeleine had never coped well with it. Granted, she had grown up the only child to well to-do parents, but almost as if to make up for the lack of siblings, they had spoiled her and enabled her to do and have anything she wished for. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she had grown to be a confident, resourceful little girl who excelled in winning everyone's affection. She never tolerated competition and only strived for the very best. Finding a suitable partner had been no exception. She could've easily had her pick of men, but nobody had expected her to fall for Charles, a renowned architect who embodied everything Madeleine was not.

Boscherville's white-washed church loomed in the distance and Madeleine remembered somewhat guiltily that yet another Sunday had passed on which she hadn't attended a service. The villagers would hardly have tolerated her presence but would not have dared to say a thing in front of the priest. For that alone she vowed to make more of an effort the following week. It would satisfy her immensely to see their dumbstruck, incredulous faces.

The market stalls were erected in the square in front of the church. Most of the goods had already been put on display even though the milling crowd would only appear once the service was over. She decided to make the most of it by pre-selecting the ones that she needed so that she could quickly acquire them and leave once the market officially opened. Slowly, she wandered through the aisles, appraised the produce that came in all shapes and colours, weighed some in her hands before continuing her inspection. Some of the tables seemed to be groaning under the weight of heavy potato sacks, others possessed beautiful carvings, as skillful as the crockery resting on top of them.

"That's smart," one of the vendors commented when she drew near. Fearing another verbal attack, Madeleine hurriedly averted her eyes and tried to move on swiftly. "You are trying to spot the best products before the crowd arrives," he continued nonetheless. It was strange how is voice did not sound accusatory.

"I just happened to be early, Monsieur," she answered evenly, glancing at him only briefly.

His top hat was so largely its shadow seemed to cover most of his face, and the fact that he had spoken to her at all suggested that he was not from Boscherville.

"Of course," he smiled genuinely, "perhaps I could interest you in some of my jewellery? How about this brooch, for example?"

He leaned across the table and pressed the little object into her hand before she could pull away. Reluctantly, she unfurled her fingers and studied the delicate golden butterfly nestled in her palm.

"It's rather beautiful, Monsieur, but I-"

"It is more than that, Madame!"

He plucked it gingerly out of her hand again, turned it face down and somehow utilised a tiny lever. The butterfly suddenly flew into the air as if life had been breathed in to it. It floated for only a second or two before it landed smoothly back on the table.

"As I was saying, Monsieur," she pushed on, lending her voice more firmness than expected, "it's a lovely piece but I am without husband and must provide for my child."

Thankfully, the church bells began to chime loudly then, muting the vendor's response and enabling her to quickly stride away. The thought of the butterfly made her shudder. Surely artificial objects weren't mean to fly and move. God knows what Erik would do with one of those things if he ever got one in his grasp. He had a ridiculous obsession with taking items apart; he needed to understand everything, make sense of it and he did not like to be bested by something that did not possess a mind of its own. And surely this strange little invention would surpass even his understanding.

Shaking her head as if to chase the thoughts away, she hurried back to one of the stalls and bought bread and vegetables. The vendors either ignored her and simply handed over the goods or gossiped noisily about her as she passed. But Madeleine had learned not to linger and swiftly steered towards the church to start the journey home. Erik would not even have noticed that she'd been gone.

Gradually, the whispers melted into the background, became nothing more than an annoying buzz. As she was passing the church once more, she saw that Father Mansart was standing on the steps leading to its entrance deep in conversation with a man she had not seen before. Automatically, she lifted her hand in greeting and the motion caught the attention of the young man whose bright blue eyes danced over her curiously.

The look he gave her stirred up a long forgotten memories and she knew, instinctively more so than rationally, that he was attracted to her. She could not remember the last time a man had looked at her like that, as if she was desirable and young. It brought something back to life in her chest, something that had died along with Charles; but it also filled her with a kind of shyness she had not experienced before. She had never been modest or self-conscious, but now that most of her days were consumed by Erik and his temper and she had hardly looked after herself like she had once done, she could not help but feel inadequate. What was there to find appealing in her thin frame and haggard face?

"Won't you introduce us, Mansart?" the man asked with all the impertinence of youth.

"This is Madeleine, she lives in a little cottage not far from here."

The priest's reluctance was more than obvious and she wondered fleetingly when she had become reduced to nothing more than a first name, as if Charles' death had not only deprived her of a last name and a title but of being a whole person also.

"And this is Monsieur Barye, he will be our new doctor."

Madeleine's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Of course, his intelligent eyes had told her that he must hold a prominent position, yet young men usually chose not to linger in little communities like this, as a matter of fact, they'd rather venture into the cities that had more to offer.

"A pleasure, Monsieur," she curtsied, knowing that such cordiality was expected of her.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle," he insisted, reaching for her hand to bestow a kiss upon her knuckles.

She grew enamoured then by the laughter lines that appeared on his handsome face, and the nervous way with which he ran a hand through his honey-blonde hair. He was a symbol of the lighter days when she had giggled like a silly goose around dashing suitors eager to take her out.

"I'm afraid we must take our leave," Father Mansart intersected, "Doctor Barye must meet the rest of the community and set up his practice. And I am certain Erik is waiting for you?"

She cursed him then with all the ugly words she could think of, silently of course, knowing that God would surely punish her nonetheless. She longed to explain herself, to make the doubt in the doctor's eyes disappear, but was even more frightened that he would lose interest if he was to learn the truth behind Erik. She forced a smile onto her lips and bid them both farewell, feeling the loneliness descend upon her like a black veil once more.


	3. The Invisible Violinist, 1882

_Chapter 2: Paris_

1882  


The rain lingered for many days, beating an angry rhythm against the windows of the _Palais Garnier_ that made Christine grateful to be tucked away in one of the bunk beds of the dormitory. The woollen blanket and her flimsy nightgown did not do much to keep her warm, but she knew that she was fortunate to have a roof over her head at all. Every day before going to bed, she went to the Opera's chapel and thanked God for this gift and every day she feared to prove herself too inadequate to keep her place at the conservatoire. Her first encounter with the mysterious Madame Giry had frightened her and she did not wish to find out if her warning words had been exaggerated or not.

It also hadn't taken long for Christine to learn that she was quite different from the other girls that were training alongside her. Just as she had witnessed on the streets of Paris, they too, possessed at least one limb, one part of their body manufactured from metal and viewed _her_ as the anomaly. While rehearsals forced them to work with her, they sought out their own company in the breaks in between and whispered noisily when she passed. The only exception being little Meg who seemed to have been brought up with kindness and possessed a natural curiosity that made her join Christine when nobody else did.

But the evenings were hard, nonetheless, when everybody flocked together in the dormitories to exchange scandalous stories, leaving her behind. Truthfully, she was glad she could only pick up snippets of conversation, since most of the tales were told in such colourful language her father would have turned in his grave. But she desperately yearned to belong somewhere, even if it meant this strange city and its strange inhabitants. Surely she could stop viewing them as an oddity if they extended the same courtesy to her.

Around her, the night grew darker still and the light of the candle that illuminated the room, flickered and danced as the wind rattled at the windows. A soft rumble joined this strange chorus and sent some of the girls scattering off into their beds. Christine, too, turned her back to the spectacle, closed her eyes and tried to settle down enough to sleep. As always, her dreams were filled with black, distorted faces and the haunting tune of a violin.

In the morning, she was one of the first to be awake and tiptoed out of the dormitory to wash and dress herself. Once changed, she nipped back inside to silently deposit her nightgown and then set off to explore the Opera further. It had not only become her favourite activity outside the lessons in singing and dancing, but it had also turned out to be a helpful tool when coping with the loneliness she experienced daily. She had thoroughly inspected the foyer with its magnificent statues casting a stern eye over those longing to be entertained and had spent a good hour on the grand staircase, staring up at the angels and Apollo's golden chariot depicted on the ceiling. Her neck had been aching after that particular endeavour, making rehearsals especially tiring.

So today she settled for a simple stroll down the large corridors instead. The hall of mirrors that flanked the auditorium to the east and ended in the _Salon du Soleil_ had had an almost magical appeal to her since she had first caught a glimpse of it. It felt like the brightest room in the building, filled with gilded ornaments and shining floors that just beckoned the sun to cast its light through the large windows. Unfortunately, the sun was still determined to remain hidden and Christine forced to explore the hall with all its shadows. Automatically, she shifted closer to the walls, felt every rough edge, traced every last detail until her hands were quite satisfied.

Just as she was about to shift away from the mirrors, the soft tune of a violin began to fill the air around her. The music was hauntingly sad yet differed greatly from the folk song she encountered in her dreams, the one her father had so often played for her. It seemed to move by its own rhythm, defying all typical structures of contemporary music yet still maintained its appeal. It seemed to be beckoning her closer and she followed wilfully if only to discover the person capable of creating such sound. She followed its call to a large column near the windows, then to the other end of the hall. But whenever she drew near, it seemed to slip away again, distancing itself from her.

Christine's heart began to beat faster then and something like foreboding overcame her. Surely sound was not capable of travelling like that! She wheeled around on the spot, frantically scanning the corridor, but the mirrors only mockingly kept showing her own reflection. She was quite alone and yet she knew that someone else was there.

"Please, I'm frightened!" she called, though her thin voice barely carried the words. "Might you not show yourself so I can thank you for your beautiful music?"

As if in response, the song began to swell around her, expanding, contorting until it, at last, ended in a loud cacophony of sound that had her covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart kept thudding loudly in her chest. Carefully and hesitantly, she removed her hands again and listened, but everything had fallen deafeningly silent. But she still couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Wiping away the tears that must have fallen without her noticing it, she pushed herself upright and clung on to the windowsill for support. Her legs still felt weak and unreliable, quite reluctant to carry her back to the dormitory although she knew she'd be safe there. Outside, a large automobile rolled past, its engine proudly laid bare, no part of it covered by paint. Whatever lightness, whatever hopefulness she had felt before had been replaced with heavy desolation. Would she ever feel like she belonged, she wondered.

"Christine Daaé!" Madame Giry's stern voice had her spinning around while her face flushed with shame. "All the girls have assembled for breakfast and you are here, dawdling and staring dreamily into space?"

The wheels on her face whizzed, twisted the silver wires until her eyes narrowed angrily.

"Forgive me, Madame. I'd lost track of time."

She kept her eyes downcast but wondered daringly at the same time, why her disappearance would matter so much to her. After all, she was neither in charge of the conservatoire nor concerned that Christine maintained her place. Perhaps she merely enjoyed sticking her nose in other people's business, she decided angrily.

"You should not be here in the first place. Now move, before I tell the managers about you, girl."

Curtseying dutifully, Christine picked up her skirts and rushed past her towards the back of the opera house. Of course, her late arrival did not go unnoticed by the girls who gossiped even more passionately than they had done before. She would have been lying if she claimed that their words did not upset her, yet her mind was still so occupied with the peculiar events and the invisible violinist that she soon forgot all about them.

Late in the evening, when the faded sunlight had disappeared altogether she decided to sneak out of the dormitory again to go to the chapel. Perhaps it wasn't wise to be caught twice by Madame Giry in one day, but she could not bear the thought of being unable to light a candle for her dear father. Even the intimidating box keeper had to understand that. Perhaps she had even left already. Christine could hardly imagine her living in the Opera.

All the corridors were as quiet as they had been in the morning though Christine supposed that it would drastically change once the new season began. But the calm she had felt at the beginning of the day was gone and so she tiptoed hurriedly down the grand staircase and lower even until the little chapel came into sight. Breathlessly, she pushed open the wooden door and entered the small space that was basking in the glow of more than a dozen candles. Here she could finally unwind, here she felt the tension leaving her body.

Gingerly, she picked up an unlit candle and touched its wick to one of the flames. She nestled it between the others carefully and then sank down on her knees, whispering a quiet prayer. She had no intention of returning yet to the dormitory. No, this was quite safe, quite familiar. It was almost too easy to lose track of time, to withdraw deeper into the memories she cherished deeply.

The soft footsteps went almost unnoticed then, almost, had the marble floor not carried the sound so well. Startled, Christine glanced over her shoulder only to see a shadow drawing closer. She held her breath and braced herself, but blonde hair and kind brown eyes made her sigh in relief.

"There you are!" Meg announced, stepping deeper into the room. Her movements were somewhat lopsided as the metallic leg that was hidden underneath her long nightgown tried to strike a balance with her normal leg. "I wondered where you'd wandered off to again. Quite adventurous, aren't you? Most of the other girls would be too frightened to challenge mother again."

"Mother?" Christine echoed in puzzlement. "Madame Giry is your mother?"

She tried comparing both of them before her mind's eye but still struggled to find similarities. Where Meg was open and talkative, Madame Giry was quiet and strict and even when they shared the same room, the box keeper did not treat her any differently. Perhaps it wasn't surprising then that Christine hadn't made the connection between her and the girl everyone only referred to as little Meg.

"Yes," she shrugged simply as if the thought did not concern her much and then sank to her knees by her side. "She told me you'd been caught wandering through the corridors this morning."

"Had I known it would get me in such trouble, I would not have done it," Christine replied earnestly.

To her surprise, Meg chuckled. "I had not expected you to be quite so curious. You always seem perfectly content in your own little world."

A sad smile appeared on Christine's lips and extended to her eyes. "I am anything but. As a matter of fact, I wish I could be more like you. You fit in so effortlessly and yet you don't seem to care if anyone were to gossip about you."

"Only because I have experienced it before and lived to tell the tale," Meg answered, giving her hand a comradely squeeze. "When father died and I lost my leg in the accident, the neighbourhood girls were on me like vultures. 'Poor, poor prima ballerina,' they would taunt me and I cried and cried until I realised that they had simply been envious of me all this time. From then on I held my head high, accompanied mother to work and held on to my wheelchair while I practised using only my good leg."

The story rendered Christine speechless and she felt great shame at having condemned what was foreign to her as strange and frightening. She could not imagine experiencing something so life-altering and still possessing the will to persevere. Too often she had witnessed others abandoning their dreams and losing all hope.

"Why did you come here?" Meg asked abruptly, interrupting her thoughts.

She did not know whether she was referring to the chapel or the conservatoire but truthfully the answer was the same.

"My father recently passed away. He was a rather popular violinist and had high hopes for me, but more than that I think he wanted me to be somewhere safe."

She looked at her candle that was slowly diminishing, lifted a finger to feel the hot wax on her skin.

"Parents seem to have that in common," Meg nodded pensively. "I'm certain mother would lock me away if she could and only allow me out to participate in rehearsals. She fears that I might grow too distracted by all the handsome patrons just like the rest of the girls, lest I forget for even a second to be grateful for everything the Opera Ghost has done for us."

"The Opera Ghost?" Christine repeated curiously.

She was certain that she'd heard the other girls whisper about it before and suddenly wondered with a start if the ghost and the invisible violinist could be one and the same.

"Yes, he's rather mysterious," Meg replied, dropping her voice to a whisper. "I trust you not to share this with the others but mother has been working for him for quite some time now."

Although it was perplexing to hear that anyone could be hired as an assistant to a spirit, it did not surprise Christine in the least to hear that it was Madame Giry filling the role. She was almost as mysterious as the spectre itself.

"But how can that be?" she frowned, hoping to learn more. Even as a child she had treasured her father's dark stories and legends the most.

"I can hardly explain it myself," Meg, who seemed just as excited as she was, giggled. "But mother tends to his box as well as to the others. He only allows _her_ inside and trusts her to deter any impertinent visitors from buying it themselves. He mostly communicates by letter though on a handful of occasions he has spoken to her directly."

Christine shivered as her imagination ran wild, conjuring up all kinds of fantasies as to what a ghost would sound like.

"He was kind enough to pay mother an additional wage so that she could afford a prosthetic leg and my operation, and when her eyesight began to fail he paid for her operation also. He really is rather kind mother says," Meg paused and nodded enthusiastically, "provided you do all he asks of you. I secretly think he's a great admirer of the arts, almost like the rest of our patrons."

"Why?" Christine questioned.

Her thoughts were still lingering on the matter of the discourse. What messages could a ghost possibly wish to convey?

"He keeps an eye on each and every member of the ensemble, no matter how small their role in a performance. When he saw how much I practised, how stubbornly I worked on adjusting to the new prosthetic leg, he paid mother again and tasked her with buying me a second one, a better one. Without his help we couldn't have afforded a leg from the de Chagny brothers, you know? They have patented a number of unique prosthetics. Mine is made especially for dancing. It possesses a spring that would allow me to perform jumps and a very clever mechanism that makes it susceptible to even the slightest movement which allows me to maintain my balance more easily."

All at once Meg's words seemed to echo loudly in the little space and Christine's face grew devoid of colour. Oh, how that name still filled her with dread!

Hurriedly, she gathered her skirts and rose to her feet, hoping that Meg would not think her unkind.

"A rather friendly ghost he must be then," she forced herself to comment, "but perhaps it is time we returned to the dormitory. As you rightly said, I should try not to get into trouble once again."


	4. Caged, 1839

_Chapter 3: Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville_

_1839_

His room was almost pitch black at night once the sun had set thanks to the heavy cloth Madeleine had draped over the window. The darkness might have frightened him as an infant, though he could not say with certainty, but now it was transparent to him. Perhaps his vision had adjusted to it sufficiently or perhaps it was just another peculiar feature of his strange, amber eyes. Nothing about the night scared him now. It was much too quiet and much too gentle. When the sun rose in the morning it brought with it the sharp, jagged edges of life itself, it brought restrictions, but the dark veil of night softened everything, showing even the greatest abomination from a more favourable side.

He was all too familiar with the concept of ugliness, had felt from a very young age that he was different somehow. When words had not made much sense to him, he had seen it in the shifty eyes of the priest or heard it in the hushed whispers that tried to exclude him. He was not like his mother, not worthy to be looked upon fully or spoken to like a young gentleman.

Still, for the longest time he had tried to be respectful, hoping against hope that it would win them over. But the matter of the mask seemed to change everything, it seemed to erase the importance of how he conducted himself. Madeleine had been lying to him when she had claimed that the mask would protect him from the monster, for he knew now that the monster would always be there, born out of stares and whispers and broken hope. Even the mask could hide only a small part of that hideousness. Erik didn't much care for dwelling on the memory of the day he had discovered the truth about his own reflection. It had shown him how ugly his mother could be, how destructive mirrors could be and how innocent and desperate he had been to believe that it could all be undone somehow.

No sound had emanated from his mother's room for quite some time now and he gingerly slipped out of his bed. With feather light steps he tiptoed to his door and pressed one ear to it. Closing his eyes, he listened intently for a minute or two but when he was satisfied that the house lay silent and still, he made his way to the window. Brushing the heavy curtains aside he used the makeshift screwdriver he had assembled to pull the screws out that were blocking the path to freedom. Then he gently pushed open the window, crawled through it and began his descent. He had done this so many times in the past that his movements were fluid and firm as his hands had committed every brick, every crack in the structure to memory.

With a soft sigh he landed comfortably on his feet and drew in a big breath, savouring the clean air around him, before he hurriedly sought shelter in the shadows of the trees nearby. How silly it would be to be caught by Madeleine when he had just overcome the most treacherous part of his excursion. Erik did not like making simple mistakes since they really were unnecessary and could easily be avoided provided one did not lose focus. There were few times when he had slipped up and he was determined not to do so again.

"Come along, Sasha," he addressed the empty air around him and began wandering towards the village.

The Cocker Spaniel had made an excellent companion in the past, she had been affectionate and warm, offering up her basket when he had been a small, defenceless infant, a simple kindness his mother had never extended to him. He knew, rationally, that she had passed away years ago. He had sneaked out of the front door that day when his mother had gone to the market but upon his return she'd somehow been waiting for him, a strange look on her face telling him that the dog had fallen asleep while he had been gone. Something about her tone had told him that he was to take this as a cautionary tale, as if more pets would just cease to live if people vacated the house without them. Erik had not seen a connection between the two, but he did know that that incident had caused the lock to appear on his door.

He had missed Sasha from the very moment she had died, but since Madeleine had not allowed him to see the body because she had buried it already, Erik had decided that Sasha might just as well have run away. And if she had run away, who was to say that she wouldn't return? Dogs were very smart animals, after all. And if everyone else was entitled to a friend, why couldn't he be?

Silently, he streaked through the forest, felt the branches underneath his thin shoes and the blades of grass as they tickled the bare skin that his short trousers did not cover. Fresh moisture had settled everywhere and the cool evening air was filled with the scent of rain. Erik liked to believe that Sasha was chasing through the greenery, barking at beetles and shaking the water out of her fur. It was a lovely thought that brought a smile to his face.

Within his mind, within his fantasy there was no room for loneliness or despair. With it he could shape his own reality, create his own happiness. He had long ago decided that it was his very own kind of magic.

At the edge of the forest, the village stretched out before him. The church was like a beacon in the distance while all the houses around it lay in absolute darkness. Above, the blanket of stars glistened and gleamed in the night sky.

He ran down the hill with measured steps, careful to dig his feet into the earth so he would not slip and draw attention to himself. The wind whispered across his skin and made him shiver, but it did not diminish the excitement that was bubbling in his belly. Sometimes he yearned to see the village by daytime, if only to observe what all the other people were doing, but then he quickly reminded himself that the sun would probably rob it of its appeal.

He had almost reached the church when something else caught his attention, something out of the ordinary. This wasn't his first excursion, after all, and he could not remember ever having seen such a strange carriage in the middle of the market square. It was of an oddly elongated shape with an uneven amount of wheels on either side. The horse that had been sleeping nearby neighed nervously as he drew close. Slowly, as not to startle it, he offered his hand and giggled when the horse's soft nose tickled over it. When he was confident that the animal would not give him away, he shifted towards the carriage and peered carefully into one of the murky windows. A man appeared to be sleeping on a folded out bed, on his chest a giant top hat.

There wasn't much else to see and so Erik moved on to the other half of the carriage that differed so greatly from the first it was as if someone had stitched hand and foot together. Gently, he stepped onto the little foothold and peeked inside and his eyes widened at what he saw. Shimmering strange objects, foreign items and a number of boxes in varying sizes all stuffed together. Clearly this was the man's treasure stash.

With a quick glance to the front compartment he tried the handle and when the door did not open, he produced a needle from his pocket and slowly fiddled with the lock until it sprang open with a soft click. Suppressing any sounds of delight with great difficulty, Erik stuck his hand inside the carriage and retrieved the first item it encountered. Swiftly, he stowed the small box away, closed the door and sped off towards the church to find a secluded spot to examine his acquisition.

As he edged deeper into the church, the sound of his footsteps reverberated faintly but they hardly registered, he had even forgotten about the little dog that was supposedly following him. His unwavering focus was resting on the box that seemed to be burning a hole into his pocket. Finally, he crouched down in the corner behind the pipe organ, propped the box up on his bony knees and carefully extracted the item. This time he could not bite his tongue and his gasp of amazement filled the still air around him.

Right there in his palm sat a minuscule scorpion, its beady black eyes glistening up at him. It was the most well-crafted replica he had ever seen and with curious fingers he turned it upside down, studied it and felt even the smallest corner. When his fingernail encountered a little ridge, he tugged at it impatiently and dropped the object when it moved all of a sudden. It was as if he had angered the animal, for it seemed to produce a tiny hiss as his tail turned upwards into the air. Unable to believe his eyes, he remained perfectly still and kept observing it. How could cold, hard metal be manipulated to move in such a life-like, fluent way? Quickly, he picked it up again, held it closer to his face to inspect it more thoroughly, the sudden slamming of the church doors and the giggling that filled the air completely inaudible to him. His mind was reeling from his new discovery, trying to remember any information he had ever encountered in the books he had read, trying to find an explanation for the clever mechanism.

It was only when he was beginning to grow frustrated and decided to return home, that the movements caught his attention. And all at once the air around him was filled with strange sounds he couldn't quite place. Somebody was panting and out of breath, then silence would wash over the wooden benches and beautifully frescoed walls before groans emanated from the same spot. Whoever it was, they sounded in pain.

Erik stuck close to the ground and crept forward gingerly. He could still make out movements but his line of sight was always blocked by something, making identifying the person impossible. The panting grew heavier the closer he got and the groans far more peculiar. They made him feel ill and strange and yet when he finally spotted the bodies awkwardly intertwined on one of the benches, he could not look away. The couple was rocking back and forth, the wood creaking under their weight. His face burned with shame as he willed his body into motion but it refused to cooperate. It was only when, in midst of a passionate thrust, the girl's hazy eyes landed on him and her scream suddenly filled the air, that his legs obeyed him and he fled the church as quickly as he could.

He tore down the steps and into the square where the man with the giant topped hat had sleepily emerged from his vehicle. Angry words rang in his ears as he turned towards the forest. Pain was burning in his lungs and when he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder, he lost his footing and fell. The village was alive now, lights burning bright in the windows, black figures chasing after him. The word "monster" began to well up around him, a contorted, angry wave of its own.

His fingertips slipped over earth and stone as he forcefully pushed himself upright and began running once again. They would not believe him, even if he told them the truth. Darting in between the trees he hoped that the villagers would lose sight of him but it wasn't long before a whole number of twigs broke behind him, setting the forest alight like firecrackers. Every gulp of air seemed to be his last as his body was assaulted by fresh pain time and time again.

He did not make the mistake of looking behind him now but kept his eyes trained on the cottage that was slowly coming into view. If only he could hold on a little bit longer. But the voices were growing louder, angrier even, seemed to circle around him, drawing closer and closer.

He set one foot onto a brick of the house and pulled himself up. Another step followed but he was so tired from running that he missed the jump and skidded down, his fingers clawing the wall for support until his nails broke and blood oozed from the nail-bed. Tears were staining the ugly face beneath the mask but he tried again.

The first stone hit him between his shoulder blades, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending him tumbling to the ground once more.

"I got him!"

Yells of triumph turning hideous quickly.

"Perverted freak!"

Another stone hit the side of his face, forcing the mask away.

"Mother!" he screamed.

He didn't care anymore that he would get into trouble. Her beatings were favourable to this torment any day.

Arms were grabbing him, shoving him, hurting him.

"Mother!"

Lights appeared in the house, synonymous with hope and Erik lunged forward a last time. But when the pale face of his mother appeared in the downstairs window he could see nothing but contempt, shame and fear. She stood watching as the throng yanked him back, kicked him until the world was turning black around the edges.

"The little corpse has more fight in him than his little dog had!"

The sentence prickled at his senses, sent realisation through him like a shock wave while ugly laughter rippled all around him. Another scream tore from his throat as he clambered upright, striking out at everything in sight. Then something blunt collided with his Adam's apple and everything went dark. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be dying.

When his vision became clear again he could see a familiar face hovering above him.

"Father…"

His voice was raspy and weak.

"Rest, Erik," the priest replied. His eyes refused to settle on him. "It is by God's will alone that you're alive."

He thought of the golden-coloured Cocker Spaniel and wept. His body was aching violently, every movement enough to make him feel sick. It did not seem to consist of muscles, bones and skin anymore but only of flesh; raw, bloodied and exposed, tender enough to be aggravated by the soft cushions on the sofa he had been placed upon.

"Tonight you have disappointed very many people," the sermon continued. "Your mother who has dedicated herself to your welfare. Me and everything I have taught you. But most of all God. To steal out at night, set foot in a church-"

"I like the hymns we sing together, Father, I only wished to see…"

"To spy on the most intimate act known to mankind. Must I remind you how sinful such acts, such desires are?"

"I did not follow them into the church. They embraced the sin, Father! I did not mean to-"

But the priest cut him off, filled the room with the sound of his monotonous voice, reminded him of good and evil. But none of it was making sense, not in the face of violence and murder, not when Erik had never felt any of the drives he was being lectured about.

He wanted to scream, wanted to tear at the priest's face, at his throat until he was unable to produce another hateful sound. But his body was fatigued and the fatigue held him paralysed and caged. For all the freedom he had yearned for, he was nothing but a prisoner yet again, gagged, blindfolded and tied up. He might have been screaming but he could not say with certainty. Everything had become black, even his hearing.

Then, slowly, his mother's face swam into view. Beautiful pale skin, dark locks and cool blue eyes. When looking at her it was almost too easy to forget that she had ignored his cries for help, had stood there watching as if a part of her had hoped that he would be beaten to death.

"Doctor Barye has arrived, Father. He will take a look at the boy now."

The priest's thick eyebrows furrowed and with a deep sigh he shifted away from Erik.

"I blame myself, Madeleine, I should have started guiding him sooner. A boy like this was always prone to be seduced by temptation."

Madeleine's eyes did not soften and Erik knew she was only humouring him. "Thank you for your help, Father."

He nodded and walked towards the door, shook the hand of a man who was tall and elegantly dressed.

"You should have notified me sooner!" the handsome stranger spoke urgently when the door had closed behind Father Mansart.

"I did not want you to become involved, Etienne."

There was something in the familiarity of the name, in the way she clutched at his waistcoat as she seemed to crumble before him that seemed much more intimate than the scene he had witnessed in the church. It conveyed a kind of closeness that left no space for him and hurriedly, Erik averted his eyes. The betrayal left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth and he knew instinctively that from that day onwards, nothing would quite be the same.


	5. The First Accident, 1882

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! :)

_Chapter 4: Paris_

_1882_

In the following weeks, Christine endeavoured to forget all about the invisible violinist and the de Chagnys, a task made easier by the increase of pressure on the girls from the conservatoire. The premiere of _Faust_ loomed frighteningly ahead of them and their ballet and vocal teachers kept them for longer hours every day to drill the routines into them. It wasn't naturally given that all girls would be chosen to form part of the chorus, but the conservatoire prided itself in the large number of those that succeeded annually.

Christine did not have great ambitions, she was happy as long as her training continued, she had a roof over her head and food in her stomach. Her father, she knew, would have wanted her to aim higher. However, her unassuming nature thankfully meant that she was not only content with herself but also, that the other girls soon noticed that they did not have to fear her competition. This made winning them over easier though, of course, some of them were determined to hold on to their hatred. The difference was nonetheless palpable and helped Christine settle more into her life at the opera house.

"Christine, hurry! We cannot be late today!" Meg whispered urgently. "Mother would have my head. Well, first yours and then mine."

She giggled and through the thin mirror Christine carefully returned her smile. She was struggling to adjust the sash wrapped around the midriff of her dress, her nervous fingers fumbling about clumsily. If only they had more than one mirror to share between them, then she wouldn't have had to wait her turn and leave this to the last minute. Meg was dressed in her favourite white leotard and tut that not only clung to her body flatteringly but also showed off her unique dance prosthetic which, Christine assumed, would suggest to the manager that she might be better suited than some of the other girls who danced on ordinary prosthetics. She, on the other hand, had opted for a simple red dress that barely revealed any part of her body and had decided to wear her dark, curly hair down so that it framed her face.

At last the sash was tied and she joined her friend on her walk to the auditorium. They passed through a side entrance into the busy fly tower that seemed to have rather startlingly awoken from its slumber. Maids were still scouring the floor while young stagehands clambered about the many swaying walkways, pulling up old set pieces and adjusting the lights. Everything inside this building was still done by hand, a re-assuring sight time and time again.

Curtseying dutifully and whispering apologies, the two girls snaked through the group of workers and then assembled behind the rest of the ensemble on the main stage. The auditorium, too, was seeing an influx in visitors and there was a hum in the air that did nothing to settle Christine's nerves. Cautiously, she stood on her tiptoes to glance over the shoulder of the girl in front of her. The whole first row of usually plush, red seats was covered by garments. Dresses, skirts, even fur coats and hats were draped across them as if somebody had emptied their closet entirely. Yet nobody seemed to bat as much as an eyelid at the strange sight. As a matter of fact, all attention seemed to rest on the two gentlemen currently deep in conversation with Monsieur Poligny, the manager.

"What's going on?" Mina, who was standing to her right, whispered. She, too, was craning her neck to try and see.

"Mother looks very unhappy," Meg replied in the same hushed tone.

In a sudden surge of nervous energy, Christine was tempted to inquire how this differed from her normal expression. But when her eyes fell on the box keeper whose black gown matched the darkness of the wings she was standing in so perfectly she seemed to melt with it, she hurriedly closed her mouth again. Madame Giry did look displeased, concerned even and somehow that filled Christine with even greater uncertainty.

She frowned and kept a close eye on her while in the background the conversation between the two strangers and Monsieur Poligny seemed to escalate into louder and louder volume. At last, they all strode up onto the stage, filling the air instantly with an expectant hush.

"I thank you all for arriving promptly," Poligny began to address them, "but before we will announce who has been accepted into the chorus this year and before I introduce our most talented leads to you, I would like you to meet Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin, the new managers of the _Palais Garnier_."

The groove between Madame Giry's eyebrows seemed to deepen.

"I am aware that there have recently been rumours about my departure and I thought it only just to inform you at the earliest convenience."

He gave strange emphasis to the last word as if, in his eyes, this wasn't convenient at all. Christine abandoned Madame Giry's rigid figure for a moment and examined the two new managers instead. They both were clad in rich, some might even say, eccentric clothes. Moncharmin's boots gave way to black and white striped socks that disappeared into knee-length black trousers. His white shirt and dark waistcoat were almost completely overwhelmed by a bright-red coloured and bold-patterned tailcoat, his eyes concealed behind a pair of matching red goggles.

Richard, on the other hand, had hidden his robust stature and generous stomach beneath a flowing velvety green fur coat. Around his neck dangled a chain of cogs and wheels and several of his chubby fingers were adorned by shiny gold and silver rings. Everything about the two men exuded confidence and power.

"We're both very grateful to be taking over this marvellous business," Richard hurried to announce, offering a big smile that showed off two rows of perfectly even-sized, golden teeth.

"And as a token of our gratitude," Monsieur Moncharmin added quickly, "we have decided to include each and every one of you in this year's chorus."

The commotion that followed drowned out Monsieur Poligny's protests, but it did not go unnoticed by Christine that he looked less than pleased. Most of the other girls around her did not care, however, were wildly hugging each other and hopping up and down until Madame Giry reminded them that they were still expected to conduct themselves professionally.

"In that case," Poligny decided once the noise had died down again, "I shall leave the rest of the introductions to our new managers also."

And no longer attempting to hide his annoyance, he turned on his heel, collected his belongings from the auditorium and strode out of the building.

In the wake of his departure an embarrassing silence fell over the assembly on stage, that was only broken when Moncharmin nervously cleared his throat. "He was terribly attached, you see," he muttered, "better not to linger."

"But why did he leave at all then, Messieurs?" Meg piped up nosily next to her.

Christine was almost certain that she would be swiftly reprimanded by her mother, but when her eyes shifted towards the wings, Madame Giry seemed to have vanished altogether.

"His health, Mademoiselle," Richard answered unexpectedly good-naturedly, "he is in dire need of an extended vacation."

The situation had just calmed down, when noisy footsteps indicated the arrival of some newcomers.

"What did she mean Monsieur Poligny left? Surely that cannot be?"

Loud voices intermingled with the footsteps and at last two prominent figures appeared on the left side of the stage, causing all heads to turn in their direction.

"Ah, La Carlotta!" Monsieur Moncharmin announced while almost tripping over his boots in his hurry to bow before her.

"And Signor Piangi," the stout man by her side introduced himself proudly when neither of the managers extended such courtesy.

Swiftly, kisses were exchanged while in the background half a dozen maids and seamstresses hurried to the first row to take their seats beneath the mountain of clothes.

"Our prima donna, of course," Richard added unnecessarily to the rest of the girls.

But La Carlotta did not seem particularly eager to make their acquaintance. Her cold, green eyes flickered over them momentarily while the broad-mouthed smile slipped off her face.

"Would you do us the honour of a small performance, Signora?" Moncharmin asked when his lips weren't busy exploring the woman's knuckles.

"If you wish, Monsieur," she curtsied for him coquettishly, her rich accent weaving itself around every word.

"Marvellous! I'll leave it to you to pick a piece. Our orchestra is not yet here, but I hope that won't deter you?"

"Only amateurs who can't project their voice need the orchestra's support! I can hold my own!" she announced, laughing haughtily and Christine fleetingly wondered if her singing voice would possess any more warmth than her speaking voice.

The managers, on the other hand, seemed positively enchanted. With grand, sweeping motions they ushered the conservatoire girls into a corner, allowing the diva all the space that she apparently required.

"Once you're ready…"

La Carlotta nodded solemnly, took a deep breath and then opened her mouth to sing. She had not been lying, Christine mused, when she had announced that she possessed a voice that was capable of holding its own. Every note was perfectly in tune, her range utterly impressive yet her voice itself was so loud, so strangely amplified that it shook the crystals on the chandelier above the auditorium and left a faint ringing in her ears. It was almost inconceivable that a simple woman could produce such volume.

So when the strange, creaking sound first registered, Christine thought it nothing but another by-product of La Carlotta's opulent voice. It was only when something big came crashing down just behind her and all the conservatoire girls dispersed screaming, that she realised that one of the set pieces had dropped and only narrowly missed her.

In the aftermath of the shock, she was only capable of staring at the fallen set piece while her heart thudded angrily against her chest. She did not see that in her fear the diva had fled into the arms of her companion and that the managers were frantically trying to unearth how it had come to this accident. She only turned when she heard Madame Giry's voice above the commotion.

"Please, Messieurs, there is no-one in the flight tower."

Frowning, Christine glanced back over her shoulder and tried to peer into the dark. Surely all the workers they had previously seen could not simply have disappeared.

"This was merely the manner in which the Opera Ghost has chosen to welcome you to his home." Ignoring the laughter this elicited from the managers, Madame Giry continued undeterred. "And he asked me to pass this on to you also."

She extended two ordinary, white envelopes to them that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be framed by black, funereal lines and sealed by blood-red wax. The last smile died on the men's faces then and there and a more sombre mood descended upon the auditorium. Then, when they had read over the letters repeatedly, they exchanged a few whispered words and walked off into opposite directions. Monsieur Moncharmin sought to console the diva whose heavy sobs were still shaking the foundations of the building, while Monsieur Richard ushered all the conservatoire girls back towards their dormitories.

Although Christine compliantly followed – after all, Madame Giry was holding a firm backline behind them – her thoughts lingered with the strange events until that evening. She did not know what to make of the new managers or the new prima donna, for that matter. She wondered where Madame Giry had disappeared to in order to collect the letters from the Opera Ghost. But what most preoccupied her was whether the ghost could truly be as kind as the picture Meg had painted of him, when he chose to make his presence known in such a reckless, dangerous way.

Her concerns seemed to be showing only too clearly on her face, for it wasn't long before the young Giry joined her in her bunk bed.

"Would you like to accompany me for a little stroll?" she asked, the glint in her innocent eyes indicating that she was after something more than her words may have suggested.

And although Christine's head was brimming over with too many thoughts already, she agreed and followed her friend outside and into the corridors.

"Quite a day!" Meg chuckled once they were alone. "I'm not sure what to make of La Carlotta."

"Everyone seems positively besotted with her," Christine offered carefully.

"Not everyone," Meg reminded her pointedly, steering the conversation directly towards the topic Christine had expected her to wish to talk about.

"You think _he_ did not enjoy her singing?"

They were wandering down the gas-lit corridor that led towards the front of the building. Once again, there was no sign of life left.

"What else could it have been?" Meg questioned and Christine paused, momentarily pondering how much of her thoughts she wanted to divulge.

"Perhaps the new management?"

Meg considered this carefully and, after a while, slowly nodded. "Perhaps, though he could have made that known sooner or later, for that matter. Not in the middle of La Carlotta's aria."

"Perhaps he was just as stunned by their sudden arrival as we were. Monsieur Poligny seemed quite taken off-guard himself."

"Mother says Monsieur Poligny did not only suffer ill health but also appears to have had financial difficulties which forced him to sell quickly. And Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin apparently are quite the big names."

"You have heard of them before?" Christine asked.

She would not have recognised anyone, of course, simply managed to identify the different classes based on the richness and quirkiness of their garments and accessories.

"No," Meg shrugged, "but mother says Moncharmin is known by anyone who is someone and Richard has made his money buying up scrap metal and making it look attractive enough for factories to buy. Apparently his teeth are a testament to that, a reminder that simple things can be turned into gold."

Christine grimaced when she heard that, found the notion of such blatant self-congratulatory behaviour utterly repellent.

"With their experience and connections it won't be long before they reel in another big patron."

"Your mother is very good at listening at closed doors," Christine teased her lightly, "or is that information still from the Opera Ghost himself?"

Meg swatted her question away and gave her ribs a playful nudge. "Do I detect an undercurrent of distaste for our resident ghost?"

Christine came to an abrupt stop and anxiously glanced around the corridor. "I fear it might be the other way around."

"How so?" Meg frowned and gently linked their arms to coax her into motion again.

"That set piece very nearly killed me, Meg," she sighed.

"But I thought we'd agreed it was about the managers or La Carlotta?"

"What if he chose to kill two birds with one stone?" She was whispering now, felt followed and watched by an invisible pair of eyes.

"But what on earth would he have against you?" her friend frowned and changed the direction of their stroll.

"I can't say, but the morning your mother caught me in the corridor? I wasn't alone. As a matter of fact, I'd followed a soft violin tune. It was truly beautiful at first but it still scared me because it seemed to emanate from different sources, as if played by the hand of an invisible violinist. And when it sensed my fear, it suddenly grew darker and angrier. I must sound insane, but I fear it was punishing me!"

Once more, her legs refused to move and her voice had grown restless with every word spoken of her confession. She would not have dared to share this with anyone but Meg, sweet Meg who believed in legends as much as she did.

"How very odd," she remarked after a moment's contemplation, "how very exciting! Perhaps his focus indeed rests on you, though I still cannot see what you might have done to anger him."

"Perhaps for the same reason the girls chose to shun me?"

"Because you are untouched, you mean?" Meg frowned and clasped her sweaty palm in her hand.

"Perhaps he is kind to only those of misfortune who prove themselves worthy to receive his help?" Christine suggested but Meg only chuckled.

"What curious ideas you have. But come now, if what you say is true, I know a way to placate him."

Wondering what on earth Meg could mean, she had no choice but to follow as the blonde practically yanked her through a side-door and onto the stage once more. In the dark, the auditorium was even more frightening. A black assembly of rows and invisible spectators, staring condemningly down onto the two young girls that had just arrived. Every sound seemed to whisper that they did not belong there, seemed to challenge their audacity to take on a place far superior to them. And in the back, a gleaming pair of amber eyes like those of Lucifer himself. And this was a kind of hell, to Christine anyway, who swallowed anxiously against the lump in her throat and swiftly directed her gaze elsewhere.

"Every day we rehearse and every day I stand next to you, Christine," Meg whispered excitedly, "I know you are trying to keep it a secret though I cannot understand why you'd try to hide it."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked perplexed.

"Your voice, of course, silly! It is so much better than you make out. I can hear you, you know? Trying to sing quieter than everyone else. You know you're better, so why are you trying to hide it?"

Nervously, Christine reached for the hem of her dress and folded it between her fingers. "I always used to sing for my father. He said it gave him the greatest of pleasure to hear that I had been blessed by the _Angel of Music_. But I am not looking to become a star now, Meg, I am looking to fit in. If the girls thought I'd differ from them in yet another way, I would truly lose everything."

"Oh, Christine!" Meg sighed and squeezed her hands. "You really are too kind. But now it's just you and me and the Opera Ghost."

She laughed light-heartedly but Christine tore herself away and nervously glanced at the auditorium before her again.

"So why don't you sing for us? I just know that your voice would placate him."

"I…I don't know…" she stammered.

The fly tower behind her still housed a great number of set pieces, she knew, and perhaps this time round his aim would be better.

"Don't be silly," Meg nudged her, "go on now. What have you got to lose?"

_My life,_ Christine wanted to say, but instead she forced herself to take a deep breath and then started to sing an old Swedish lullaby her father had taught her. It was the first song that had popped into her mind and with every line that passed she felt herself propelled back to her life in Sweden, to the simplicity and harmony she had known there. Every note was touched by melancholy and hope alike and in the end the little melody soared like the most intricate of symphonies.

When she was done, there was room for nothing more than silence. Words would not have done the experience justice.

"Well, I think you can take on La Carlotta any day," Meg quipped at last, wearing a grin so broad it stretched from one side of her face to the other.

And Christine chuckled along, feeling as if something heavy had at last been lifted off her chest, as if something in the very air around her had changed. For Meg the matter was settled then and she wasted no time tugging her away from the dark stage again. But for some reason that she, herself, could not quite identify, Christine suddenly yearned to linger.

Nonetheless, she followed her friend back through the dark corridors, glancing over her shoulder time and time again as her eyes searched for something she could not say. In the end, it was only when she drifted off to sleep that night that that something obtained a voice.

"Quite unique indeed," it whispered and then diffused among the shadowy figures reaching for her.


	6. The Scorpion's Sting

_Chapter 5: Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville_

_1840_

Erik's room was plunged into darkness even during the day now, thanks to the wooden boards his mother had mounted in front of his window. But that was just as well, his last excursion had robbed him of all desire for further explorations. He had well and truly seen now what the world outside had to offer and all that ugliness had taken from him whatever zest for life he might have once had.

Often, he lay alone in the dark, discovering more of that magic only he, himself possessed. And there was the case of the little scorpion, of course, that he had found still wrapped up in its box outside in the grass shortly before the wooden boards had appeared in front of his window. He had not wanted to go outside again, but the thought of the scorpion had so consumed him, he hadn't been able to resist. Because in the end, that little object was the only thing worth remembering about that night and he could not bear the thought of another small creature being trapped within four walls. At night, when his mother slept and he couldn't find a way to occupy his mind sufficiently, he played around with the little metal insect or tried to discover how its mechanism worked.

Life moved slowly now, sluggishly even, one month bleeding lethargically into the next. There was no little dog anymore, no furry companion to offer comfort. The truth about her death was too terrible to ignore, even for him. As for his mother? Well, she had altered too, entirely, and although related by blood, Erik could feel that their bond was otherwise permanently severed. He could not forgive her the lies she had told him and the information, regarding Doctor Barye that she had kept from him.

But despite his hatred for her, he felt a roaring, angry jealousy at their relationship. It was as if she had withered away stuck in the house with him and now that the young doctor had appeared, she had once again blossomed into the woman he had seen in all the paintings. Truthfully, Erik did not know how to feel about him. On the night of the attack, when he had been called to tend to him, Erik had felt something like a grudging respect towards the skills as well as the strong stomach the doctor clearly possessed. He had peeled off the remnants of his bloodied mask without wincing or showing any other signs of discomfort. Then he had regarded his disfigured face neutrally, coolly even and swiftly gone about stitching up whatever could be fixed like that.

"Now he must sleep, Madeleine," he had firmly decided after he had studied his handiwork, "I will give him a draught to assist him with that and then his body will do the rest."

Erik hadn't struggled or protested, had accepted the vial lifted to his lips wordlessly and stared into the light blue eyes until the world had started to fade.

Doctor Barye had started stopping by regularly since that night, an unwanted intruder in a house that already felt like a prison. Erik didn't like the way he made his mother laugh: that shrill, girly laugh that really did not suit her. He did not like the way he could make her disappear even when he was not around, as if even the fantasy of him was more favourable to the reality of a life with Erik. But most of all, he had started to hate the things they talked about when they thought he wasn't listening. The plans he had for the future, expanding his practice, possibly moving to the city, all of these plans that did not include him.

At times his mother would allow Doctor Barye to talk, as if it was an actual, feasible option; at other times she would remind him of his presence.

"We can't possibly move, Etienne," she would say, "Erik would cause such a scandal, we'd never be safe."

To which the young doctor would always promptly ask: "And you feel safe here now, Madeleine?"

They had gone back and forth like this for quite some time, filling Erik with a strange mixture of guilt and pride. After all, he still possessed some power if he could stop his mother from making important decisions. But he really should have known that the young gentleman would let nothing stand in the way of his ambitious future.

"We could send him to England, Madeleine!" he had one day started to argue. "They can help him there. And he is rather big now, wouldn't you say?"

"He's nine years old, Etienne," she had sighed.

"At nine, I already knew perfectly well what I wanted, and I doubt Erik is any different. You have said yourself that he can conduct himself like a mature gentleman when he wishes."

Erik hadn't cared very much for the idea of being sent away. It wasn't that he possessed particularly warm feelings towards his home, but at least life was somewhat predictable there. Whatever mild curiosity he harboured towards England, he kept to himself.

Lately, he had taken to tiptoeing downstairs whenever his mother had gone outside. She did not lock his door during the daytime, trusted him to have learned his lesson. Today was no exception. He slowly walked down the old staircase and settled at the piano, his spindly fingers dangling over the keys. After the incident, he hadn't been able to play for the longest time. His fingers had ached at even the lightest of contact and most of the songs he had learned to play were the hymns that Father Mansart had taught him. He refused to play them now, shunned them like he shunned the priest himself. The struggle had been terrible as his need clashed with his resolution. Until one day, a strange music of its own had been born out of it. He never titled these compositions, nor committed them to paper, as some of their beauty lay in their freedom.

Today, a small, melancholy tune flowed forth as his fingers explored the keys. It never reached the heights some of his other compositions had, but it sparked a series of little melodies that intertwined with the main theme, creating a masterpiece of its own. Outside, he could hear his mother talking, could hear the laughter that indicated the arrival of Doctor Barye. But he did not stop, not even when the front door opened and both of them joined him in the sitting room.

"Erik, Doctor Barye is here."

He did not lift his head or interrupt the flow of music. Though it was amusing to think that the man could be Doctor Barye for him and Etienne for her, as if two people resided within the same body. Sometimes he wondered what his father would think about the doctor.

"Erik, where are your manners?"

"Hello, Doctor Barye," he drawled out slowly, "how nice that you could join us."

The chuckle that followed insulted his ears and broke the music with its falseness.

"You know I am always happy to join you and your mother, Erik."

He turned around slowly on his chair and fixed the doctor with a dark look that challenged him to meet his eyes. He doubted that he would have dared repeat the lie under such circumstances.

"My mother enjoys your company also, Monsieur," he remarked coolly. "I shall go to my room and give you some privacy."

He had just risen to his feet when his mother suddenly asked him to stay, an invitation that made his stomach turn.

"Doctor Barye would like to talk to you about something."

"I see," he remarked, each word clipped as he sank back down on the little chair.

He reached for the edge of the piano, gripped on to it for support and inhaled the familiar scent of wood and varnish.

"We all know that life has been exceptionally difficult for you because of your extraordinary face."

Erik did not like that word, extraordinary, as if it was something remarkable the rest of the world just did not understand, as if he thought he could deal better with a construct of lies than the ugliness of reality.

"But in my line of work, I am in the position to observe the changes and developments that are occurring, even in countries outside of France. Now England has been revolutionised lately, that is to say that some very clever people have found ways of mechanising labour and harnessing the power of those machines for all kinds of purposes."

Erik did not like the way the doctor talked to him either, as if he was ignorant as well as hideous, as if he had been deaf to Father Mansart's lectures about the power of steam. He could not claim to have the kind of expert insight Doctor Barye clearly possessed, but he knew that change was beginning to take place. At the very least, his scorpion was a testament to that.

"Yes?" He dragged up his shoulders and let his eyes wander across the room.

Warm, orange light of the setting sun filtered in through the window. His mother and Doctor Barye were sitting so close to each other it was surprising that they did not touch. How strange that it seemed as if they did.

"Etienne has a few friends there," Madeleine proceeded. The brave, little smile struggled to remain on her lips.

"Acquaintances, really. They are running a successful clinic."

"Specialising in what?" Erik questioned.

The conversation was beginning to bore him and he turned away from the light and the couple, his feet tirelessly beating a rhythm against the pedals of the piano.

"Helping people, of course, special people like yourself."

His eyebrows furrowed into a frown beneath the mask and his right foot hit the pedal harder, destroying the perfect rhythm he had previously created.

"I'm sorry to inform you, Monsieur, that I am quite beyond help," he remarked, his voice monotonous and empty.

"Nonsense," Barye chuckled, "these men know what they are doing. Their metal will seamlessly integrate into your face, it will hold up your bones better, build you a nose."

Erik's feet stopped in mid-air. The pedals of the piano jumped up and hit his soles.

"I have quite enough bone, Monsieur, it is skin that I am lacking. I don't suppose they could help me with that."

His eyes fell onto a piece of sheet music that was dangling over the edge of the instrument. He studied the notes exposed to him, hummed them in his head.

"They have experimented with skin also." He heard his mother's sharp intake of breath. "I am certain they would find a way to fix you, make you look normal."

The tune intensified in his head, as if the hammers of the piano keys were beating against his temple. Panic, not dissimilar to the kind he had felt on the night of the mob attack, was rising in his chest. The threads of his mask were cutting into his skin, the mask itself was too tight. The familiar rough fabric had become slick and soft and fleshy. He was being suffocated. The notes in front of him dissolved into a black stream. His head was pounding still as if it was being drilled open.

They wanted him to become a machine, remote controlled by an artificial brain. Would he be allowed to keep his eyes, he wondered? Would they remove them altogether or inject them with paint to make them appear more normal? His heart was beating faster and faster, something irritating was tingling in his wrists. Would he only be normal when he wasn't himself? When he had lost everything that made him human?

His hands came crashing down on the keys time and time again and the piano screamed in agony. He furled his fingers and used his fists until the sheet music came tumbling down. Someone else was yelling also. Incoherent words, a ruthless, angry melody. But he was louder and although his throat was sore and hurting he continued until the other voice was drowned out.

A couple of strong arms wrapped around his chest, lifted him from the chair and away from the piano. No more restrictions! He was sick and tired of them. His own arms and legs thrashed around wildly, clawing at hair and skin, kicking at bone. When he was still not released, he sank his teeth into the hands that were holding him until the taste of iron tainted his saliva. His breathing was low and ragged and he did not stop fighting until he was carried off into his room, flung onto his bed and locked up. Then, for the longest time, everything around him grew dark.

The creaking of floorboards awoke him again, alongside the sound of hushed voices. Still, he struggled upright as if a gunshot had rung through the air. The incident in the sitting room was hazy, but he knew what had been proposed and he knew that he did not like it. Carefully, he sneaked to the door and listened.

"He'll forgive you when he's older, Madeleine."

"What if he doesn't? What if this operation makes him worse?"

His mother sounded hesitant and scared.

"We've talked about this. You agreed! It won't make him worse. Don't you trust me?" He heard a faint sigh and then another creak closer by. "They know what they're doing."

"To have him carted off like that in the middle of the night. It just isn't right, Etienne!"

She was yelling now, then there was a long hush.

"He cannot possibly stay with you anymore. He's unpredictable and out of control. He bit me earlier, you saw it with your own eyes! He behaves like an animal and he'd be a danger to you, too. Even if we hadn't arranged this before, after the incident surely even you must see sense."

It sounded as if she was crying. Erik would be surprised if she was.

"The carriage will arrive any moment now. You have packed his belongings, you have given him food. You have cared for him as best as you could. You are giving him this opportunity. Now it's time that he goes his own way, like a man."

Panic flared up once more, had him staggering away from the door. How much time had passed? How much time did he still have left?

He crawled under his bed to retrieve the screwdriver, used it to pull open a panel in the wall. He collected his scorpion and the little coin purse in which he stored all the treasures he had found in the past and hurriedly shoved them down his trouser pockets. Then he used his screwdriver to try and pry away the boards in front of his window but in his fear he could not find the angle that would create the leverage he needed. And so he sank back down on his bed and awaited his fate.

When the doctor came to collect him, he rose to his feet calmly. He did not speak or make eye contact. His hand caressed the wooden banister a last time as he descended the stairs, committing every groove, every splinter to memory. His mother was standing by the front door, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. He did not like the sound of her arrhythmic exhalations, the wet snorts she produced when trying to inhale again. He avoided her too, looked instead at the piano that appeared serene and normal, except for a few indentations his rage had created.

"One way trip to Manchester!" a stranger announced. His teeth were brown and his breath smelled of alcohol and decay. A soft wind was blowing outside, ruffling his hair.

He did not turn around to look at the cottage again, did not run back to cling to his mother and beg her to change her mind but took mechanical steps up into the back of the carriage instead. Everything was still happening in a daze.

The space was crammed, filled with barrels and goods, boxes and bottles. He nestled himself into a corner and stared at his feet. When the vehicle cranked into motion his mother screamed something, she sounded frantic and unhinged. Erik hoped Father Mansart would drive her away, he hoped she would burn in hell. She was neglecting her duties, abandoning him to be picked apart and turned inside out. She was weak, seduced by a man who worked hand in hand with the devil. Erik hoped she would suffer.

The passage was slow and strenuous. He tried to sleep, to flee into his own fantasy world but seemed to have outgrown it in the span of a few hours. The carriage bumped and his body hurt. The longer the journey took, the more frightening the images in his head grew. At times he'd wake up screaming, pushing his fingers into his sockets to see if his eyeballs were still there.

Then, one day, a strange calm settled over him. He had been cast aside and left to his own devices, it was time he would become a man, that's what Doctor Barye had said. Perhaps he was right, from now on he'd have to fight his own battles. He had no desire to go to England and so he first needed to figure out how to escape. The carriage wasn't moving at high speeds and yet he did not wish to risk jumping out and being caught and dragged back again. The merchant who had agreed to take him along, did not exactly strike him as the most amiable of characters. No, he'd need a distraction. Something that would draw the attention away long enough for him to escape.

Carefully, he turned around until he was lying flat on his stomach in the crammed, little space. Once more, he eyed the assortment of objects in front of him. Erik slipped the screwdriver out of his trouser pocket and inched forward until he was hidden within the shadow of the barrels. He positioned his screwdriver and waited. Predictably, the carriage bumped, making his stomach ache when it got shoved into the floor of the vehicle. He counted silently, trying to ascertain a rhythm. Then he stabbed the barrel, right in the small gap between the wood. The bumping and swaying of the carriage masked the sound his actions created.

At first, nothing happened. He repeated the motion time and time again until his hand ached. When the sticky liquid at last oozed out of the barrel, he began to cry. He did not try to contain his tears, let them run freely as relief surged through him and the slick liquid drew a small trail down to the bottom of the carriage.

Next, he slipped the screwdriver back into his trouser pocket and retrieved his scorpion. His one last friend, his one companion. So many hours spent with it in the dark, picking it apart, assembling it again, trying to make sense. And oh, how it did now! How perfectly it fit into his scheme.

He held it in the palm of his hand, turned it onto its back so he could study its belly one last time. His curious fingers had chipped off all the colour, had exposed its mechanical body of little saw-teethed blades that hooked effortlessly into one another. And they had altered it, exchanged part of its innards with sharp, smooth stone and other materials he had found on his excursions until the metaphorical source of light had been transformed into a practical one.

His hands trembled when he gently tugged out the little dial that had once started the mechanism that lifted the tail of the scorpion. This time, it would create something far greater. Swiftly, he began rolling the dial between his fingers, patiently but nervously until the first spark jumped forth as metal ground against stone. His breath came out in shaky puffs while he repeated the motion, lowering the scorpion carefully with every successful spark. And that's all it took, a series of sparks that ignited the oil that had seeped out of the barrel. But the fire still spread faster than he had expected. It devoured all the wooden containers, licked at his arm that had been drenched by the oil also until he yelped in pain.

"What are you doing back there?!"

The carriage gradually decreased in speed but he couldn't wait any longer or he would be burned alive. He flung himself out, landed roughly on the ground below. His flesh was angry and alive, the pain far worse than he had expected, but he needed to keep moving. Dragging himself upwards, he tore off in the direction of the forest. The driver's angry screams, the horses' neighs and the crackling of fire still reverberated in his ears. He ran as far as his feet would carry him, until even his vision appeared to become singed. Then he collapsed onto the leafy ground, cradling his arm against his chest. Now he was truly alone.


	7. The Opera Ghost, 1882

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos!

_Chapter 6: Paris_

_1882_

When Christine awoke the following morning, she felt as well rested as she hadn't done since her arrival in Paris weeks ago. She did vaguely remember the strange voice that had spoken to her, but decided that it was nothing more than a figment of her dreams, a manifestation of her desire to receive her father's praise once more.

The dormitory was already alive with movement and noises, as the various girls clambered about to collect their belongings and prepare themselves for the first day of rehearsals that lay ahead. Christine soon followed suit, embracing the sense of tranquillity that Meg had helped her restore the previous night. When nobody came to accompany them to the rehearsals, Katarina, one of the older girls took it upon herself to usher them out. Everyone was responsible for themselves, of course, but it was still refreshing to see that a different, more caring dynamic was starting to develop.

Her ballet shoes in hand, Christine joined the ranks of the chorus girls and followed them towards the front of the building where the auditorium was located.

"Mother told me Monsieur Richard has sacked a stagehand this morning," Meg whispered while she seamlessly fitted herself next to Christine.

"But she said yesterday that there was no-one in the fly tower so no-one could have been responsible. She even told them that it had been the Opera Ghost's doing."

"Easier to blame it on a person than a spirit, I suppose. More believable, too, especially for highly-strung people like La Carlotta."

They both snorted in amusement but quickly stifled their laughter when some of the older girls turned their heads to fix them with a stern look.

"Still, the poor man…it just isn't right," Christine concluded as they turned the last corner and entered the stage.

The two managers had taken a seat in the front row that had been cleared of all the garments that belonged to La Carlotta. They gave everyone a warm smile and sipped from their teacups with an almost serene calmness. Before them, in the orchestra pit, the musicians had also assembled and occupied themselves tuning their instruments.

"Punctual as always," Moncharmin remarked before he fell silent again, leaving the chorus girls confused as to where they were meant to stand and what they were meant to do.

For a short while they simply shuffled around, not daring to converse with one another openly. But then Katarina appeared to find the courage to organise them once again.

"Put on your shoes if you need any and haven't already done so," she instructed, "and let us get warmed up so we won't delay the beginning of the rehearsal."

Heads inclined dutifully, redundant items were flung into the wings and soon all the girls were engaging in exercises that helped prepare their muscles for the strain of rehearsal. By the time La Carlotta finally made her entrance, almost an hour had passed, yet the managers took it with humour and grace. Monsieur Poligny certainly would not have tolerated such tardiness.

"Perhaps you would like a moment to prepare yourself, Signora?" Moncharmin offered graciously and with a polite bow. "The orchestra is at your disposal today."

Carlotta's eyes fell onto the conductor and with a haughty laugh she shrugged off her salmon-tinted coat, relying on one of her maids to catch it, and twisted a strand of her chestnut-coloured hair around one, pudgy finger.

"How very kind of you, Monsieur," she answered silkily, "but I am quite ready. Let us begin at the top?"

Meg appeared to have been right, Christine thought, the sacking of the stagehand seemed to have settled the diva's nerves sufficiently. Without further ado, she took to the stage, giving a curt signal to the chorus to shift out of the way and ignoring completely that her companion, Signor Piangi, should have had the honours of singing first. Christine saw his eyes flickering towards the management who was too enraptured to notice, she also saw his brows furrow at the oversight.

"When you are ready, Monsieur," Richard addressed the conductor and sank back down on his seat.

When the first beautiful notes of music filled the air, Christine was overcome by the familiar feeling of peace, one that was quickly broken when La Carlotta began to sing. Just as it had been the case on the previous day, her voice seemed loud enough to shatter glass and Christine nervously directed her gaze upwards, but all set pieces seemed to have been removed to avoid further accidents.

Still, it wasn't long before La Carlotta appeared to be struggling. At irregular intervals, the volume of her voice started to waver, at times disappearing altogether. Though at first the diva tried to remain calm, soon she forgot about disguising her shock and began grasping at her chest and throat, both of which were covered by the burgundy leather of her corset, with an increasing sense of panic. At last, she was cut off all together and as the orchestra continued to play, she shot angry glares around the auditorium in search of the culprit. But there was no movement, not even up in the gilded boxes, until Monsieur Moncharmin jumped to his feet and hurried to the stage.

"Perhaps a glass of water, Signora?" he offered nervously, the fear in his eyes only growing when the diva seemed to work herself up to twice her size.

"Water, Monsieur?" she shrieked. "Do you wish for me to be poisoned as well as undermined?!"

The poor man seemed to have no answer to that, appeared confused even as to the meaning of her words, and spluttered and gestured hopelessly as the woman strode past him and deep into the auditorium.

"But, Signora, the rehearsal?" Richard called after her, though truthfully he did not seem all too concerned since he remained in his seat.

"I will not sing until this fool is captured!"

Her voice seemed perfectly normal again and Signor Piangi less than impressed.

"But Signora," Moncharmin insisted, jogging after her through the aisles so that his tailcoat fluttered behind him, "you know the new patron will be here any moment. He has been looking forward to your performance for weeks now."

He grasped her hands, lifted both of them to his lips and bestowed several kisses upon her knuckles. For a moment, La Carlotta seemed to wrestle with herself as flattery tangled with the fright she still had not shaken off entirely.

"We must present something and you're the best," he tried once again.

"Christine Daaé could sing the part, Messieurs!" Meg suddenly announced so loudly that Christine startled.

She had quickly learned that the young Giry could be unpredictable, impulsive even but an impromptu performance for the Opera Ghost was one thing, a performance in front of the whole ensemble and the management something else entirely. It was true that she knew the part of Marguerite, her father had exposed her to many operas in his time, but that did not mean she had memorised all the lyrics, let alone possessed the talent to do justice to a role like that.

The silence seemed to stretch on indefinitely as the air around her crackled with tension. The lime lights felt much too hot on her skin but all the eyes were burning her far worse. Incredulously, she stared at her friend, trying to discern what had made her utter such a ridiculous claim, but in her kind face she only found genuine affection and a small amount of expectation, as if she sensed that something was clearly due to happen any moment now.

"A chorus girl?" La Carlotta shrieked, bursting into fits of laughter that her companion gladly reciprocated.

The sound she produced was not feminine or becoming, but an ugly gulping sound that seemed to expand her stomach against the restraints of her garments.

"Good heavens, you are all raving mad! What are you waiting for then, Monsieur? Let the girl sing. I am yet to encounter a member of the conservatoire that possesses an ounce of talent."

Christine thought about the ballet mistress and the elderly gentleman that had given them voice lessons, she thought about the tireless energy, the boundless passion they had displayed. She thought about Meg who had continued dancing on one leg until she had been given the chance to buy a prosthetic counterpart. She thought about the rest of the girls and everything they had lost but the conviction they had maintained nonetheless. And suddenly when she looked at the arrogant beast in front of her, a fire seemed to fill her belly, giving her the determination to take firm steps forwards until her feet were aligned with the very edge of the stage.

"Messieurs?" she asked firmly, tilting her chin up to strengthen the resolve that already seemed to crumble again.

"From the beginning?" Richard asked, glancing uncertainly from Moncharmin to the conductor.

She felt her legs tremble beneath her when at last the music started to soar. Her heart was fluttering in her chest, her palms sweaty. She tried to envision the auditorium as it had been the previous night, dark and empty, but it was impossible with Carlotta's green eyes boring into hers from across the room and the presence of all the conservatoire girls just behind her. The first few lines came forth breathlessly, as if her throat had grown narrower somehow and did not permit the same amount of air to flow anymore. She focused on her breathing, tried to relax her shoulders but found she could not support her voice fully. Still, she pushed on, determined to diminish the triumph that glistened in Carlotta's eyes.

The doors were opened so softly that she at first did not notice the tall figure striding confidently into the auditorium. The orchestra was drowning out everything else around her and her eyes were still locked with Carlotta while she willed herself to continue. It was only when she became aware of the whispers that were beginning to swell behind her that her eyes fell on him. He was tall and of average-build with kind blue eyes that twinkled in a familiar face. His blonde hair was cut fashionably short, accentuating the square line of his jaw. His clothes were only of the best material, the double-breasted silver waistcoat a nice contrast to the black tailcoat, trousers and cravat that made up the rest of the ensemble. He walked slowly but with conviction and with the aid of a cane that gave him the appearance of a much older man.

Her voice cracked when realisation dawned on her, then simply froze. Memories infiltrated her mind unbidden. The sea, her red scarf, the accident. She could scarcely believe that he was standing here before her. How desperately he must hate her.

Suddenly, the tension in the auditorium came crashing down on her again. La Carlotta's croaking laughter echoed in her ears where it mixed and mingled with the snickering of the other chorus girls.

"Please forgive me," she whispered and, picking up her skirts, fled the stage.

In her panic, she did not look where her legs carried her, simply allowed them to create some distance between her and the past. Light and dark marble blurred together as she flew down the corridors, down the staircase and into the chapel. With no space to go, she stopped at last and sank to her knees. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and more followed as she buried her face in her hands. She had not felt this wretchedly miserable since her father's fingers had slipped through her hand. Now it felt as if her own life was disappearing also.

Surely Raoul had recognised her and if the managers would not punish her for her impertinence and her sudden disappearance, he would ask them to have her removed. She had destroyed his life, or so she'd thought, and he had every right to want revenge. It would be all too simple now. The whole ensemble, the whole Opera had witnessed that she was nothing more than a fraud. She had no real talent, or at the very least not the nerves that were required to take to the stage as a prima donna. She had proven herself yet another example of mediocrity.

"I hope you get nodules on you cords, Carlotta," she whispered venomously before covering her mouth and choking back another sob. "No, I don't wish that." The glow of a dozen candles blurred before her eyes but she could still feel their heat. "Forgive me, father, for the _Angel of Music_ has chosen another. I'm not worthy of him anymore."

She lingered on the cold stone floor until even the last tears had subsided and only the heavy emptiness remained in her heart. She was frightened to return to the dormitory, to face all the girls who would surely loathe her again now that she had acted like she was better than them. They would not allow her the time to explain that she had only been trying to avenge them, to put La Carlotta down a peg or two. She wondered briefly if Meg already had to bear their anger.

Wiping her cheeks a last time, she pushed herself up before taking a tentative step out of the chapel. Her face would, no doubt, be puffy and red but there was little that could be done about it. She walked back up the grand staircase and down the corridor with all its gas-lamps. She had nearly reached the dormitory when a sudden movement caught her attention.

The insect appeared out of nowhere, its little legs propelling it rapidly across the smooth surface of the floor. Christine shrieked and shrank back against the nearest wall, clutching her hand to her chest while the beady eyes of the scorpion remained fixed on her. She did not dare to breathe, could not summon the focus to wonder how on earth the exotic creature could have appeared in a Parisian opera house and simply stared at it, hoping that it would scurry off again from where it had come. Unfortunately, it approached her instead, pressing its black body closer to the floor and extending its terrible, pointy tail. A few more seconds passed and then, all of a sudden, music started flowing forth. It was almost like a strange dream, as if she was losing her mind, but the melody was most certainly emanating from the scorpion.

Hesitantly, she crouched down and examined the little creature more closely and with a gasp realised that it was not alive, that it was nothing more than an extremely well-crafted machine. As if sensing her realisation, it suddenly turned around and began scampering away, past the dormitories and deeper still into the other end of the corridor. Incensed at the cruel deception, at this malicious prank, she hurried after him, her fatigue making her testy enough to yearn to confront whoever was behind it.

In the end, she only found herself in a dressing room, one that appeared to have been out of use for many years. The walls, the dresser and the ornate table were covered in a smooth layer of dust, the large mirror on the other side of the wall was so murky that she could barely see her own reflection. And yet, two lonely candles were burning on either side of it and that's where the scorpion had stopped also, producing a few last fading notes.

"Show yourself!" she demanded, though her voice sounded shaky and uncertain.

She was all too aware all of a sudden that she was utterly alone.

"Do you so yearn to see my face?" a voice boomed in return.

Christine flinched in surprise and fear alike and glanced around wildly trying to locate the man behind it.

"I have spoken to you before yet you paid me no heed."

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the little scorpion.

"How may I call you?" she tried tentatively. "You must offer me a name, a title at least since you seem to know very well who I am."

"I have had many names in my time, child." The answer was philosophical, bestowing more beauty to a voice that already surpassed her wildest dreams. "A ghost, a spirt…an angel."

She felt shaken by every word spoken, to her dismay she even felt fresh tears well up in her eyes that she could not explain. But it was all there in that heavy melancholy, that powerful agony that clung to every note.

"The Opera Ghost," she whispered, the words simply slipping out.

Laughter echoed through the room, rich and yet somewhat terrifying.

"How ungrateful you are," he spoke at last, "did you not sing for me only yesterday? Yet today you renounce me."

"You are not the _Angel of Music_!" she replied firmly, looking around once more for him.

"But I could be, Christine." Deepest sorrow was tainting his voice. "You have a gift, a talent, a soul quite remarkably unique in a world as desolate as this. You are quite wrong to believe that the _Angel of Music_ has cast you aside. How could you possibly think so when you're the very fabric of music itself?"

She stared at the mirror and found her wide-eyed reflection in the layer of dust. Oh how he stirred something up inside her, this man, this disembodied voice, how he moved and freed a part of her long ago buried. How easy it was to forget about everything else he had done, should he truly be the Opera Ghost.

"You wished nodules upon Carlotta's vocal cords, did you not?"

"How? How could you possibly know?" she whispered, panic rising anew.

"I see and hear everything, Christine. I am the heartbeat of this Opera, my blood runs through every passage, my bones are the very foundations of this building. You must believe me when I tell you that no such ill fate needs to befall La Carlotta. If you permit me to teach you, your voice will eclipse hers and before long, Paris will be at your feet."

The promise was intoxicating, his words had an almost physical effect on her as she felt a sudden rush while her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"I do not wish to take her place," she demurred, thinking about the chorus girls and the miserable existence she'd suffer, should she agree.

"Perhaps not for your own selfish reasons but to set an example," he argued, "you owe it to them, you owe it to your father."

She swallowed, felt a fresh lump in her throat. Perhaps one more chance would suffice, just one more performance to open the managers' eyes, to open the door for simple girls such as herself.

"And where would you teach me?" she asked quietly.

"In this very room. Why do you think I've brought you here? Every night at 8 o'clock you will meet me here and I will tutor you. Provided, of course, you agree."

She thought of the long hours of rehearsals, of all the hard work the other girls had invested and nodded eventually. "As you wish."

"Then go now, you are clearly fatigued and a tired body is of no use to me."

Those parting words stung, rejected her as if she was nothing more than an object that had outlived its usefulness. Biting her lip against the fresh onslaught of tears, she picked up her skirts and hurried out of the dimly lit room and towards the dormitory.

Heads turned in her direction when she entered, whispers grew louder and louder but she only hurried to her bed, ignoring all of them, even little Meg who looked desperate to talk. She had only just curled up on the soft linens when she noticed the white envelope that seemed to have slid off her pillow. With fearful fingers she opened it and produced a small note.

_Little Lotte,_

_Why did you run after I'd only just found you again? I tried meeting you once the rehearsal had finished but was told you would see no-one. Would you not indulge me and permit me to take you out to supper?_

_With fond regards,_

_Raoul de Chagny_


	8. No Man's Land, 1840

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, again, for the kudos!

_Chapter 7: No Man's Land_

_1840_

He was walking for days, aimlessly and sometimes afraid that he was so lost he'd end up back where he'd started. He kept away from the main roads, away from mankind of which he had quite enough. The sun was rising and sinking in the sky while he walked until hunger and fatigue forced him to stop. Thirst was even worse. It dried out his throat until it felt rough like sandpaper and it dominated his journey as it caused him to search the soil for any signs of a nearby lake or river. When he did manage to locate one, he threw himself into the shallow water and scooped it up by the handful. He drank until he was feeling quite sick, until the water seemed to slosh around in his belly like a raging sea. Then, he cautiously lowered his burned arm into the river and cried silently while it lapped at his flesh. The rosy layer of blisters that had first lined the arm had given way to raw, exposed flesh and glimpses of protruding white bone. The only way to manage the pain had been to keep walking, to force his mind to focus on other matters, a nearly unachievable task nonetheless.

The more time passed, the worse his arm seemed to become and before long, he had lost all movement. Days and nights blurred together, became one feverish dream that he seemed unable to wake up from. His stomach developed little razor-sharp teeth, created solely to consume his innards and in the end, even itself.

In this sick and weakened state, he stumbled upon the remnants of a camp. Coals and sticks still warm spoke of a fire, feathers and bones spoke of chickens having been slaughtered and eaten and shreds of fabric, wood and metal spoke of a small settlement. He pushed his good hand into the ashes, digging wildly for leftover food but only unearthed more and more dirt. He screamed in agony then and curled up as his body was wrecked by sobs. He did not remember falling asleep, only recalled the certainty that death was drawing circles around him.

Loud shrieks and laughter rang through the air, rousing him suddenly though he only managed to lift his head. Through the dark shadows of the trees he could see an angry, orange flame, dancing and twirling, billowing thick smoke into the night sky. Curiosity and hunger compelled him to move but it took a great deal of energy to pull himself back up onto his feet. The pain emanating from his arm had bitten its way up his shoulder now, and the burned limb almost refused to be cradled against his chest.

He staggered forward only slowly, stones and roots tripping him up. Occasionally he paused and leaned against a tree for support. But the closer he drew, the clearer the scene in front of him became. A whole group of women were dancing around the fire, their bright, lively garments twirling through the air. They seemed completely enraptured, their eyes closed, their heads tilted backwards, allowing the wind to rush through their wild, dark hair. There was no inhibition holding them back, and Erik felt instinctively drawn towards the air of freedom they exuded.

He was so caught up in the fluidity of their movement that he did not hear the twigs breaking behind him, the sound that would have otherwise warned him that he was being watched also. To him the shove came out of nowhere, it upset his already precarious balance and sent him tumbling to the ground. His body hit the earth roughly, cracked something in his arm that had him scream out in pain.

"Another _gadjo_ spying on our girls," a soft voice said.

"These grounds belong to us!" another announced firmly.

Erik tried turning around, at least enough to face them, but his body shook so violently that it wouldn't obey.

"Come on, come on, let's get him up!"

Strong hands shifted under his armpits and dragged him firmly to his feet.

"What a curious little fellow!"

Erik could not yet see the man that was holding him upright, however, could make out the other that was slowly stepping closer. He seemed to have taken a great interest in the mask, was studying it and the amber eyes behind it while the light of the fire danced on his bronze skin.

"Why don't you show us what you've got to hide, eh?"

Fear momentarily gave him the energy to thrash about, kicking and biting at everything in sight. The sounds that were emanating from his throat were utterly foreign, wild and feral. He somehow knew that he'd be in even greater danger if the mask was to be removed and he was fighting with all his might to prevent that from happening. In the end, there was nothing he could do. The mask was ripped off his face and flung far away into the darkness. The face with the hawk-like brown eyes before him paled and the man uttered a string of words that might have been a curse or a prayer. Erik's body simply went limp and drooped, causing the man behind him to painfully yank him upright again.

"Javert would want to see this," he muttered.

Erik did not struggle when they dragged him, puffing and grumbling at the lack of assistance. He kept his eyes downcast and his lips locked, even as they moved him past the fire and the dancing girls whose shadows had transformed into roaring beasts that swallowed up more and more of his body until he was completely covered in darkness. Then, the two men hoisted him up, shoved him into one of the caravans that seemed to be lining the edge of the camp and left him there to his own dark thoughts.

Erik did not have to try the door to know it was locked and yet, when the men disappeared, a wave of panic so overwhelming washed over him that he threw himself against it with all the force his good shoulder could muster. But of course it didn't budge and he crashed onto the floor once again. The caravan smelled of damp wood, like mushrooms and the forest soil but was otherwise immaculate, but Erik could find no comfort in it, drew his bony knees to his chest and covered his face with his uninjured hand. His heart fluttered frantically in his chest and did not slow down until the two men appeared again.

"You're lucky you're so extraordinarily ugly," the man he had previously not seen snorted, he was shorter and bulkier than the first. "Otherwise he'd have disposed of you already for disturbing the festival."

Erik remained unresponsive but did not stop them from prying loose his hand again and carrying him somewhere else. It was only the sight of the cage that caused the fear to return, a fear that turned his stomach and made him bring up little more than bile.

"Filthy beast!" hawk-eye snarled and tossed him angrily into the contraption. "Looks like he must be trained still."

"I hope Javert knows what he's doing."

Their laughter shrank him in size until he was nothing more than a tangled ball of limbs in a corner. His tongue was coated in bitter saliva, his body alight with pain and his thoughts a dark, knotted mass. Music and voices floated towards him and occasionally faces would pop up in front of the bars of his cage, devouring him with their eyes. So he closed his own, blocked them all out and plunged deeper into the blackness of his mind.

He might have slept though it did not feel like it, as he was all too aware of every sound and every movement. The stillness of the night which he had once treasured dearly was pierced again and again by snickering and shrieks, as if the curious onlookers delighted in and feared the creature before them in equal measure. The air became colder and then slowly warmed up again as the sun rose and touched his face. Everything had fallen quiet except for the whispering of leaves as the wind slipped through them and the innocent chirping of birds.

Very carefully he dared to look up but startled when he realised that he wasn't alone, after all. A pair of grey eyes were watching him. They sat in a withered old face, lined by wrinkles and scars. But Erik could not bring himself to look away. There was kindness not curiosity and something else he could not identify. They sat and stared at each other in silence for quite some time, the pitiful, broken boy and the old, hunched man. The sun rose higher in the sky and the camp awakened around them. Babies cried, pans clanked against each other, something sizzled and emitted a delicious smell that made Erik's stomach rumble.

Slowly, the old man extended his hand, slid it through the bars of his cage. He turned it, offering up his palm, showing the angry veins and liver spots. The gesture remained, even when Erik showed no signs of reciprocating it. The grey eyes were patient, even in light of the sobs that came unbidden. Only when his chest hurt, did Erik untangle himself, pushing one knee forward and closer to the man. His injured arm hung limply against his side, the uninjured hand trembled as he reached out; it continued to tremble when palm finally met palm. Another moment of peace, the small skeletal hand in the old, worn one.

Then sharp laughter nearby, too close and Erik freed himself again, withdrew into the corner in which he had slept. The old man studied him for yet another moment, then turned and slowly walked away and out of sight. The loss of his company was terrible, devastating almost but what followed was even worse. A short burly man walked into view, flanked on either side by the two men that had captured Erik the night before. The greed he saw in the eyes of the stranger, terrified him, the hopelessness of the situation even more so.

"You did not exaggerate, I see," Javert hummed.

His voice was deep yet unusually soft. He produced a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the cage, entering it while his eyes never left Erik. His hair was flat and blonde as if bleached out by the sun, his earlobes loose and droopy, his knuckles bruised. Yet when he stepped closer and crouched down before him, he smelled sweet, sickeningly so. His scent seemed to offend Erik as much as Erik's scent offended him.

"What a vile creature," he muttered, shaking his head, "let us clean it up before we present it to the masses."

His hand reached for Erik's clothes who hastily dodged the touch.

"You won't soil our clan."

The words were quiet and threatening, a promise that Erik knew he would keep. The greedy eyes danced over his body and then without warning, he grabbed his arm so that his nails were digging into the burned away flesh. Tears stung in his eyes but the mouth before him only twitched into a grin.

"Take off your garments, little monster."

Erik's parchment-like skin seemed to dissolve under the weight of the tears, mucus oozed out of the hole that was his nose although he hurried to wipe it away with his sleeve. Slowly, he kicked off his shoes, reached down with his free hand to peel off the socks that instantly emitted a terrible stench. He saw the disgust in the other men's eyes, saw how they swiftly turned their back to him.

"More," Javert instructed calmly.

Erik reached for the hem of his shirt that had become oversized and was only dangling loosely from his bony shoulders. The hand clamped around his arm was released briefly but returned the moment his shirt had been discarded. The greedy eyes wandered to his trousers and Erik felt shame rise to his cheeks.

"Please, Monsieur," he begged.

Oh, how quickly he wished he would not have spoken. Javert tilted his head and moistened his lips.

"So it speaks," he whispered, "with the voice of an angel and the conduct of a true gentleman."

Hands reached for his trousers and pulled them down unbidden.

"I should whip you for hiding that from me."

He used the pressure on his arm to make him turn around before him.

"Oh we've been blessed this time." He grinned, revealing beautifully kept teeth. "You'll make us a lot of money, little corpse, won't you?"

"Please, Monsieur, just let me go. My mother will be searching for me. I promise I will not return, I won't tell anyone about you."

Dirty laughter that seemed to stain him. Fear beating in his wrists. Warm, shameful moisture that trickled down his legs. Then a slap that nearly knocked him unconscious.

"How dare you! Must I teach you manners, after all? Eladon, Gallius, take him out of my sight and make sure he is properly scrubbed and rinsed!"

And although the two men seemed reluctant to touch him, they carried him out of the cage and away from the centre of the camp where the giant fire had been lit. They passed half a dozen caravans at least, all of them hand-painted and displaying beautiful carvings. Heads appeared in the windows, gawking at him; pointing girls were hurriedly pulled away, their eyes covered.

Eladon and Gallius dragged him to the edge of the clearing and tied him to a tree. The rope bit into his skin, removed another layer of burned flesh. Then they walked away and in their absence a small audience began to gather. The eyes that wandered over his exposed body were like unwanted touches he could no swat away. Oh, how he yearned to cover himself. How he wished to punish those who had laid bare his very soul against his wishes. He closed his eyes and hummed, a soft little tune that he'd once learned. His twisted lips parted as his heavy tongue found the words that accompanied the melody. The crowd that surrounded him gasped softly in surprise.

Eventually, the two men returned carrying buckets. They threw water at him, cold like a shock that paralysed him further, then used brushes with hard bristles to scrub his body. The ordeal refused to cease, the eyes lingered, the mocking laughter, the harsh words that assaulted him even though he could not understand. They cut off the song he'd continued to sing.

Then all at once a hush broke out, the whispers softened and footsteps faded. The old man had returned, stood before him before taking measured steps. He lifted a dagger from his belt and began sawing at the ropes, gestured angrily at Eladon and Gallius who tried to stop him.

He embraced the weight of Erik's body as he fell forward, supported him and quietly walked him back to his tent. He did not smile which was oddly re-assuring and lowered him onto his makeshift bed. He took up vigilance by his side and held Erik's hand all through the day and another night while the demon shadows danced around in his head.


	9. The Sailor and the Teacher, 1882

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! :)

_Chapter 8: Paris_

_1882_

The voice found her again in her dreams, it whispered unintelligible things before becoming one with the voice of her father. More voices mingled until nothing but a harrowing scream echoed within her mind, drowned her and made her startle upright, gasping for air. The dormitory swam into view and with it the chorus girls that pointed and snickered. She hurriedly looked away but was compelled to face them again a moment later when Meg Giry's voice rang through the air.

"Have you nothing else to occupy yourself with, you idle creatures? Adalie, Laurette, Simone? Must I remind you how homesick _you_ were? How you cried for your mothers at night?"

Adalie, the smallest girl, turned her head away in shame while the other two gasped in outrage and strode away.

"Mother was right saying those two need a good smack once in a while," Meg then muttered under her breath and joined Christine at her bed. "We just have enough time for breakfast if you hurry?"

Christine nodded numbly, still trying to recover from the fright her dream had given her, and then rose to her feet to quickly wash and dress herself. Once her nightgown had been abandoned for a leotard and tutu and her hair had been pulled up and tamed as best as it could, she joined Meg for the quick walk to the nearby breakfast room.

"You haven't said a word to me since yesterday," the blonde pointed out quietly, "are you cross with me as well?"

Christine sighed and with a great deal of effort focused on her friend. She had been too busy scanning the vicinity for the Opera Ghost to notice that she had been silent, perhaps from Meg's point of view punishingly so.

"No, of course not. If anything I am puzzled. You caught me off-guard! Nobody, including the management, saw that coming!"

"I was tired of Carlotta's attitude," Meg murmured, displaying more seriousness than Christine had witnessed during her time at the conservatoire. "She acts all superior and yet puts forth no effort while the rest of us had to go through God knows what hell to be offered little more than the possibility of a chance."

"I agree," Christine nodded, turning a corner and entering the wood-panelled breakfast room that was largely deserted, "and yet you must agree that it's rather a silly notion for me to surpass her. I have no experience to speak of other than a few fair performances I did with my father."

"But you're too humble," Meg insisted, taking a seat on one of the benches, "which is why I thought you needed a little push."

Christine looked at the baskets of produce, bread and meat freshly bought for the conservatoire every morning and considered how best to word her response without offending her friend.

"I appreciate your thought, Meg," she began carefully, "but perhaps in future it'd be better to let me make those decisions myself. I fear the girls now believe me a traitor, another blossoming prima donna in their midst who thinks she's far too superior to share a space with them."

Meg nodded solemnly and helped herself to the food she desired, lifting slices of cooked ham or jars of strawberry preserves into the air to check what Christine would favour. Once Christine had made her choice and prepared her breakfast, she returned the items to the basket.

"I am relieved you don't hate me, at least," Meg then commented.

Christine took a moment to chew her food, washing it down with a bit of water that was also supplied, and then answered: "I could never. You've been much too kind of a friend."

"In that case, would you care to indulge your friend's curiosity and explain why the Vicomte de Chagny was looking for you? Why he looked so disappointed to be turned away and even insisted to leave you a note?"

Christine felt the heat shoot to her face as she knew all too well what her friend was insinuating. And it might have been true, once upon a time, before everything changed so drastically. She stared at the piece of bread in front of her in silence, suddenly robbed of all appetite while she felt her friend's interest grow and grow.

"I honestly cannot say what compelled him to seek me out so fervently," she began slowly, "it truly is not the kind of reaction I expected when I saw him striding into the auditorium."

"So you two do know each other!" Meg exclaimed excitedly. "You must tell me more!"

Christine swallowed nervously, gripped the edge of the table with one hand and prayed for some kind of divine intervention. Where was the meddling Madame Giry when one needed her?

"Raoul and I first met in Sweden where his family had chosen to vacation that year. He was a sensitive boy, you see, very prone to illness unlike his older brother Philippe. Their trusted physician had recommended the fresh air of the north to bring some colour to the boy's cheeks. He insisted that Raoul needed to restore his energy by playing outside rather than by being cooped up in the house and his father, determined to make an honourable sailor out of him in the future, eagerly agreed."

"A nobleman, an entrepreneur and a sailor!" Meg gasped, playfully fanning herself. "I'm growing more and more jealous by the minute!"

Christine remained determined to avoid her eyes and absent-mindedly played with the bread on her plate, sucking a spot of jam off her finger a moment later. She did not want to react in any way, however unintentionally, that would give Meg the wrong idea.

"I was used to spending time by myself. Father would not always be there since he had to make money somehow. But Raoul was always accompanied by someone, his governess at the very least. On the day we met, however, he had stolen out of the house early and gone down to the water where we encountered each other. We couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old and friendships are still easily formed then. That first year, neither of us knew what kind of a class difference stood between us. It wasn't important, not when we could play and talk. He had a similarly strong interest in legends and ghost stories," she chuckled but quickly covered her mouth. "As the years moved on the de Chagnys came to stay at their summer residence frequently, though I do suspect Raoul's insistence had something to do with it. The more we got to know about each other, the closer we grew. I trusted him completely and he me. He was almost like a brother."

The blush on her cheeks, however, indicated, that it might have been more of an intimate relationship than that.

"What you've told me so far sounds like a fairy-tale. But something must have happened?" Meg intersected. "Did his family not approve of you? I've heard he is closer to his brother than to his father. Some rumours even say they have no relationship whatsoever."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know," Christine shrugged, "though I'd hope for his sake that his family is still supportive of him. No, what happened between us was far worse…" She discarded her breakfast altogether and stood up wringing her hands. "Perhaps we ought to go. I really don't want to cause another scandal."

Meg's face clouded over as she frowned and directed her gaze to the large clock that was mounted on the wall.

"Nonsense, we still have enough time. Go on." She clasped her hand in hers and squeezed it for reassurance. "Whatever transpired really can't be so bad, not the way the Vicomte acted yesterday."

"Well, as I said, that's still puzzling to me," Christine murmured before taking a deep breath, "I hadn't expected him to forgive me for causing him such great injury."

"Injury? You?" Meg repeated incredulously. "I don't understand."

"We were fourteen the last time I saw him. It was a stormy day, the sky overcast and dark, the waves lapping greedily at the shore. Nonetheless, we were determined to make the most of it before Raoul returned to France to start his naval training. We walked peacefully for quite some time, up and down the same stretch of the beach that my father had told us to stick to. I think he might have been afraid of improper intentions on Raoul's part and wanted to keep an eye on us. Before long, Raoul began talking very animatedly. He shared his plans for the future with me, his dislike for the path mapped out for him and then he, he-" she stopped abruptly, her breathing quick and shallow. "He produced a ring and asked me to make him a promise."

Meg's squeal drew the attention of the last remaining people in the room.

"I could not believe my eyes," Christine hurriedly continued, "we had not been intimate other than in spirit, perhaps, and so the magnitude of his feelings caught me by surprise. As I stood there, contemplating my response, a breeze whipped through the air and took with it my favourite red scarf. Oh, how foolish I was! I should have known how he'd react." She buried her face in her hands as the tears emerged. "You see, it was the last reminder of my mother, for father had had to sell everything else of value. I cried out in panic as we both watched the scarf being carried away towards the sea. 'Dry your tears, Little Lotte,' Raoul said, 'I'm an accomplished swimmer now and shall fetch it for you.' And before I could do anything to stop him, he ran into the water. I wanted to follow him but was too cowardly to do so. I had grown up with the changing nature of the sea and learned to respect it. Raoul swam with fast, firm strokes, steadily drawing closer and closer to the red garment bopping about in the water. I had just stopped holding my breath, had believed him safe when a wave came crashing over him and he disappeared. I tried to calm myself by remembering how confidently he had handled similar situations before, but when he did not emerge I grew frightened and screamed his name time and time again, the wind swallowing up any sound. Then suddenly his blonde head emerged, his blue, frightened eyes found mine. I tried to re-assure him, gestured for him to swim back to land but another wave swiftly submerged him, dragged him away. Utterly terrified now, I tore myself away and began running up towards our house from which my father must have surely kept watch for he met me halfway, yelling to go inside and wait there for him."

Meg's eyes mirrored the fear Christine was re-living but now that she had begun the tale she found herself unable to stop.

"I could not simply wait, I'm sure you'll understand. And so I ran back down to the beach with my father. We both scanned the wild sea for any trace of Raoul and both saw when it happened. He had made one last attempt to scream for help, when a fresh wave came crashing down on him and threw him against a nearby rock." She covered her mouth now and squeezed her eyes shut. "Father risked his own life then to get to him but could only pull out his lifeless body, my red scarf tied firmly around his middle. Everything that followed happened in a blur. Raoul was returned to his family, a doctor called and a grim diagnosis made. He had suffered such grave injury to his spine that he would never be able to walk again. His father blamed me, said that Raoul would surely do the same once he awoke, that I had ruined the bright future that lay ahead of him."

"The nerve of the man!" Meg muttered but Christine shook her head.

"If I hadn't made such a fuss about the scarf, a silly scarf, the accident never would have happened."

Meg continued to shake her head stubbornly and rose to her feet to embrace Christine. "It was truly just an accident and the Vicomte appears to know that. Whatever hatred his father had for you, you must discard. It sounds as if you've been burdened with it for too long."

"He gave me such a fright when he appeared yesterday, walking, in full use of both of his legs. When you had mentioned the de Chagny brothers in relation to your prosthetic leg before, I had assumed Raoul to be the figurehead. I had assumed him to manage the finances or some such matters that would not require him to leave the house. To see him walk, well I, I still don't see how that's possible."

"Money can solve a lot of problems," Meg offered simply and released her again to study her blotchy face.

"But surely it cannot fix a broken spine."

Rubbing her face with her hands, she took a deep breath to calm herself and then started walking in the direction of the auditorium, Meg right on her heels. She knew that the blonde continued to talk to her, re-assuring platitudes, no doubt, intended to lift her spirits. But Christine was so preoccupied with Raoul, now that she had brought the matter out into the open, that she barely heard a word that was being said. She wondered, perhaps foolishly so, if in this country where curious inventions existed and disembodied voices spoke to people from behind solid walls there might also be a chance for a miracle cure. Had she not seen Raoul walk with her own eyes she might have dismissed the notion as ridiculous.

When the noise emanating from the auditorium finely pierced her consciousness, her steps gradually slowed down until she came to a complete stop.

"What's the matter?" Meg asked, gently grasping her elbow.

"I'd completely forgotten about this when we were talking. Am I still accepted as part of the chorus?"

"Oh yes, of course, don't be silly. The managers really are rather kind, they wouldn't let you go. I apologised to them and the Vicomte did his bit to make sure they knew you were an asset to the ensemble."

Her face flushed with shame and embarrassment. What a truly kind soul he was and yet she remained firm in her decision not to answer his note, she did not wish for him to come to more unintentional harm by being associated with her.

The chorus girls accepted them into their folds, some treating them with wary respect still, the main troublemakers silenced by Meg's outburst this morning. Still, Christine did her best to remain hidden. She danced as best as she could and sang softly and quietly as she had done previously. There were no more accidents or strange occurrences despite La Carlotta's vice-like grip on the rehearsal process but still Christine remained nervous. She thought at first that she was waiting for Raoul to appear, but as the day wore on, she suddenly remembered with a start that she was to have her first lesson with the Opera Ghost that very evening. The previous day she had been so consumed by a range of feelings that she had not been in the right mind-set to question her decision. Now, however, she wondered what on earth had compelled her to agree. It was as if life had somehow cast her as the heroine in one of the fantastical horror stories her father had loved to tell. If she was up to the task remained yet to be seen.

In the evening, she joined the rest of the girls for dinner, laughing with those teasing Meg about her impulsive announcement the previous day and relishing in the lighter atmosphere. Yet her stomach remained knotted, her heart continued racing and whenever her eyes fell onto the clock her breath started to grow shallow. What kind of higher power had she become entangled with, she wondered.

When at last the hands of the clock indicated the time she had been dreading, she leaned into her friend and informed her in a whisper that she'd be going to the chapel for her nightly prayer and then rose to her feet to leave. None of the girls questioned her disappearance and so she reached the abandoned dressing room within minutes. She stopped short just before entering and took a deep breath. Something was frightening her though she could not pinpoint it with exact certainty.

Just as it had been the case the previous night, two candles were alight on either side of the mirror while the rest of the room looked just as neglected, the only addition being a little mechanical clock that had appeared on the table. She knew from the moment her foot crossed the threshold that he was there although there was no sight and no sound to give him away. A tension in the atmosphere told her that she was being watched.

"Here I am, just as we'd arranged," she announced herself, still grappling with the issue of how to properly address him.

"Punctuality is a virtue, my dear," came the voice from the mirror, "I am pleased."

The dark space made her feel small and alone and although she bravely nodded, she wrapped her arms around herself in support.

"We shall begin with some scales to warm up your voice decently," he decided firmly; there was no space to argue or voice one's own thoughts. No, he was unmistakeably in charge.

She thought back to the voice lessons of the conservatoire, to the elderly gentleman who had sat at the piano and patiently accompanied them and momentarily wondered whether the Opera Ghost possessed an invisible instrument also. The idea was so laughable that a chuckle nearly slipped past her lips until she remembered the haunting violin tune that had shifted by its own accord. She did not know how she could have possibly forgotten about it. The more she was surprised then when instead of the sweet swinging of strings she was treated to a voice unlike anything she had ever heard.

It was true that his speaking voice alone was rather remarkably unique yet nothing about it could have prepared her for the melodious warmth of the singing voice that wrapped itself around her shoulders like a blanket and stirred up emotions within her that she did not dare face in the light of day. And presently he was only singing a simple scale, up and then down again, inviting her to participate. She could only imagine how shaken he'd leave her if he was to ever treat her to a song or an aria and yet she suddenly yearned for nothing more than that. She needed him to continue, craved it even, desired to burn alive while the rich timbre of his voice crashed down above her and consumed her entirely. She had grown so enraptured by it all that she hadn't registered that she had failed to produce a single sound of her own and inadvertently drawn the Opera Ghost's wrath.

"Don't let me bore you, Mademoiselle," the voice suddenly remarked, icy and cutting, "perhaps you'd prefer a more difficult exercise. Or should we commence with Marguerite's aria straight away? So you may hurt your vocal cords and damage your precious gift forever?"

His anger was so frighteningly palpable that she backed away from the mirror, grasping at the hem of her dress.

"I do apologise, I did not mean to offend you," she whispered, "I was merely mesmerised by your voice. Please, do give me another chance. I promise I won't disappoint you."

She could not fathom what compelled her to utter such a desperate plea but the thought of being deprived of his company had become absolutely unbearable. She tried to make sense of what might have fostered such dependency but found only his strange, compelling voice at the heart of it.

"Very well, Mademoiselle," he granted quietly, "but you'd do better to remember that I'm not in the habit of giving second chances."

She nodded firmly, took a step closer to the mirror once more and when his voice reverberated around her yet again, she forced herself to sing along. For more than half an hour he pushed her voice through tedious scales and trills before he was finally satisfied that she was warmed up sufficiently.

"Before we, indeed, tackle the role of Marguerite," he began, "I thought we might work on the enchanting little piece you sang for me the other night."

Christine's skin flushed suddenly. His voice was giving her impromptu performance a rather intimate touch that was unjustified and yet oddly thrilling.

"The lullaby?" she asked in return, excited at the prospect of tackling something less mundane than scales.

"Yes," he replied, "but before you begin I want you to stand taller. Relax your shoulders and remember to unlock your jaw."

She felt his instructions like a physical sensation and did her best to fulfil them. Then, she opened her mouth and began to sing. Her nerves were almost as taut as they had been the previous day when she'd been forced to sing in front of the management and the ensemble. Perhaps today she was even a little more nervous. Now, that she had heard his voice she feared that hers might pale in comparison, that he might realise his mistake and move on to someone more suitable. But he merely listened in absolute silence, not once interrupting her to correct a note that had fallen flat, a phrase that needed supporting.

When she had finished the lullaby, she breathlessly awaited his appraisal but he only instructed her to repeat the song. As a matter of fact, he asked her to repeat it so often that she lost count, the sole indication of how much time passed being the little clock that had appeared on the table.

"That's quite enough," he decided an hour later, "you are tired and the strain is beginning to taint the quality of sound. Go now and rest."

She curtsied dutifully and turned towards the door. Her mind was feeling hazy from everything it was trying to process, her body fatigued from the exhaustion of rehearsal and this additional lesson. She possessed no more strength to question him or even bid him goodnight.

"Remember, my dear," the voice spoke, following her outside into the corridor, "your gift is your most prized possession now. I shall know if you strain it unnecessarily or don't rest appropriately when I have ordered you to. Know that I punish those that dare to disobey me!"

The warning caused a chill to run down her spine and she decided determinedly that she would never do anything to anger him.


	10. Le Mort Vivant, 1840

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos!!! :)

_Chapter 9: No Man's Land_

_1840_

The old man's name was Mauro, though Erik did not learn that until much later since everybody only ever referred to him as "he". He was the only one of the gypsies that seemed human to him. The only language they initially conversed in was that of silences. Later on, Erik would learn that of signs as well, of delicate hand gestures and fluid movements that possessed a beauty of their own.

But for now there was only quiet and a kind of hush that couldn't be found elsewhere in the camp. Nobody came searching for Erik although he was certain that the old man's tent was known. He slept mostly and when he was awake thought of ways to detach so he might not have to exist for as much as a single moment in this horrible reality that was waiting just outside the tent.

Sometimes, physical sensations would pierce his consciousness, but more often than not he allowed them to exist without paying attention to them. He felt his arm being lifted, felt rough fingertips brushing over the burned-away flesh. He felt something soft graze his skin next, something wet, administered with great care and caution. He was being washed again, kindly this time, not like an animal who deserved only freezing water and a hard-bristled brush. Every once in a while the old man's face swam into view and Erik used these occasions to study his face. He memorised the curve of his bushy eyebrows, the broad wings of his nostrils, the scars on his tanned chin that were barely hidden beneath a fine, white stubble.

Then sharp pain blurred his vision again, resounded within his skull although it originated in his arm. The old man wiped away the tears that had accumulated on his cheeks, his grey eyes understanding and apologetic. Erik tilted his head away, wishing to avoid the sincerity of that glance that seemed powerful enough to make him come undone. He focused instead on the small bowl in the man's free hand, noticed the pieces of dirt and gravel, some coated in a layer of an unidentifiable white or green substance. He understood now that the man appeared to have extracted them from his skin and the thought very nearly turned his stomach, so he quickly squeezed his eyes shut and let him continue to work. Eventually, the dark mist claimed him and he allowed himself to be whisked away.

When he awoke, the scent of rain permeated the air and his arm felt heavy and warm. He glanced down at it nervously and discovered that it was covered by foreign herbs and leaves and wrapped in a makeshift bandage that once must have been wet as it was caked to his skin now. He touched it gingerly with his left hand but did not dare remove it as the old man seemed had seemed to have known what he was doing.

He lowered his arm carefully and closed his eyes. Droplets of rain were hitting the roof of the tent, their rhythm soothing in their steadiness. They seemed to form a melody and unaware of how it happened, Erik's dry lips parted and he hummed along. Occasionally his voice would dominate the tune, before it dipped lower, grew quieter and allowed the rain to sing the rest.

The cold fingers appeared on his throat so quickly that his eyes flew open and he very nearly startled upright, had his worn-out body and the determined pressure of the hand not prohibited him from doing so. The old man did not offer a smile as would have been customary to ease someone's fear, but held a steady eye contact while his fingers gently prodded his throat as if urging him to sing again. Carefully, Erik proceeded, repeating the tune he had only just created. Slowly, the old man began to nod along, matching the rhythm with each of his movements. A smile appeared on his face at last, broad and youthful, exposing his teeth. Erik tentatively returned the smile and continued to sing, shifting the melodies, altering them until he was quite done. Then silence enveloped them again and the old man's hand slowly drifted down Erik's uninjured arm until he found his hand. He gave it a quick, firm squeeze and then rolled over, turning his back to Erik and went back to sleep.

Erik did not know what to make of that curious moment, but he did know that he didn't want it to pass. He longed to fall asleep permanently, here in that one moment of blissful peace and acceptance.

But the morning changed everything. It brought footsteps, patrolling dangerously close to the tent. He glanced at the old man but his face was neutral, his fingers focused on the bandage he had placed around his arm. It was only when the men entered the tent and Erik startled away that he seemed to notice something being afoot.

"Javert wants to see the little corpse before we leave," Gallius, the smaller man grunted, ignoring the old man's questioning look and the raised eyebrow.

"Move!" the other one snapped, reaching for Erik who recoiled from the touch, too aware suddenly of his naked body beneath the damp, woollen blanket.

But the hands did not withdraw, grasped for him with a kind of violent force that made him tremble. Shifting in between them, the old man gave a very clear sign to stop and then turned to rummage in a chest nearby.

"You better be careful," Gallius muttered, addressing the old man's back, fully aware that he could not hear him, "you have been pushing your luck for some time now."

Ignorant to the warning, the old man turned around again and presented a washed-out white shirt to Erik who offered a hesitant smile in return and pulled it over his shoulders. Then he rose dutifully to his feet, frightened that he might be endangering the old man further if he resisted. The shirt dangled shapelessly from his body, wide and long enough at least to cover him decently.

Erik did not speak to the men but loathed them silently for the gruff manner with which they handled him, the utter disregard they displayed to his wounds and the old man's healing attempts. He followed them around the perimeter of the camp until they reached yet another caravan. It was clearly Javert's for it instantly stood out. It was painted entirely black with golden flowers and horses drawn across its side. Ornaments decorated the space above the main entrance, more opulent than the saints seen on the other caravans. It was obvious that he had crafted even this vehicle as a testament to his power and influence.

"Keep moving," Eladon snapped, pushing him towards the door so hard that he collided with it.

His teeth bore most of the knock and he tasted blood, but nonetheless he bit his tongue to suppress any sound, humiliated enough to be sent grovelling at someone's feet again.

"Ah, here he is! Our little corpse!" Javert greeted him. His little rug of blonde air had been parted and slicked back. "Our little talented corpse." Two fingers curled under his chin and forced his head up, but still Erik remained quiet although his eyes burned with hatred. "Our little songbird."

Javert's voice was like honey, as slick as the grease in his hair. Utterly unpalatable. Despair fluttered in Erik's chest, very nearly unlocking his lips and forcing him to utter another desperate plea. Somehow he managed to stop himself and pride took over the despair when Javert's nostrils flared incensed. The smack came harshly nonetheless, but once the first sting had subsided, Erik tilted his head back in its original position and resumed his icy stare as if unmoved by the pain. The power he felt was like a small triumph, but sadly only short-lived as the expression in Javert's eyes changed and he stepped so close Erik could feel his breath on his face.

"So this is how you wish to play it?" he hummed softly. "Very well, you wouldn't be the first animal I've broken."

His eyes flashed and without further warning Erik was being yanked back and carried outside. Gallius and Eladon silently dragged him through the camp and deposited him in the cage once more that now contained a fine layer of hay that reeked of urine. He turned his back to the men, did not watch them walk away and lightly prodded the hay with his foot, trying to locate a piece that was dry enough to sit on.

Then the waiting began, never-ending and excruciating. There was no respite, no moment to unwind because he did not know what was coming, he did not know what lay ahead, only had the dreadful abyss of imagination to provide him with the most horrific premonitions.

All around him the camp was being packed up. The children that had been running around, their snotty faces pressed against the bars of his cage, were beeing scooped up and locked in their respective caravans. Tents were dismantled and livestock collected. Colourful ribbons untied and slipped out of forked tree branches, the whole endeavour escalating into a loud cacophony of sound, only interrupted when a number of beautiful horses were paraded into the remnants of the camp and attached to the caravans.

Erik, too, was given a horse, a white one with grey spots and tufts of rough, sturdy hair that fanned out across its hooves. It was larger and broader than the others, adequately built to pull the heavy metal contraption Erik found himself in. As the whole clan moved on, Erik glanced over his shoulder once to watch the clearing disappear, then he focused his attention on the horse, the powerful movements of its shoulders, the beautiful slope of its neck.

The mode of travelling, however, was far from comfortable. The cage seemed to have a mind of its own, bumping about angrily at the slightest obstruction. He tried clinging on to the bars with his uninjured hand to stop himself from being thrown about, but since the journey lasted long through the night it grew weary at last and he was forced to let go. The cage jostled heavily, knocking him into its unrelenting structure repeatedly and despite his best attempts at shielding his injured arm, it was further damaged in the commotion.

Their journey continued for days, the gypsies only stopping occasionally to acquire food and to wash themselves. Nobody approached the cage or glanced at him which was a relief, although he knew that if it hadn't been for the old man pushing pieces of soggy bread through the bars he would have painfully starved in his prison. Many more days passed in which his own thoughts were his only companions, if they had not existed, neither would the words that accompanied them and he might have lost his grip on his mother tongue altogether.

In the first few weeks or so he could not tell where they were as the gypsies largely kept to hidden pathways, following markings on trees that spelled safety and food. It was only when they had left the forests and fields behind and large mountains started to loom in the distance that Erik wondered if they were still in France or if his home country, along with his childhood, had been left behind.

A fair site in front of this breath-taking scenery was the first spot they stopped at permanently. Tents were erected once again, children allowed outside to play and one by one the whole community emerged. Erik wasn't freed and for the first couple of days nobody approached him. Then Gallius appeared, on his own this time, opened the door of the cage and led him out. He did not say where they were headed and Erik knew better than to ask. Instead, he observed the customs that took place all around them. He saw women, young and old, hunched around a fire place plucking chickens and preparing stews. He saw well-toned men bending and shaping metal plates as if they were butter. Children, in bright garments, chasing each other around, others spread across the beams that constituted the underbelly of the caravans, peacefully asleep.

The further they walked, the more he realised just how big the terrain was that the gypsies had claimed for themselves and he began to notice that more than one clan seemed to be present, almost as if a gathering was taking place.

"Wash!" Gallius suddenly instructed, pushing him down a small hill and into the bed of a river.

Erik steadied himself with his unharmed arm and obeyed the order. He did not care to expose himself yet again, but his own smell was sickening him so much that he overcame his reluctance.

"You have a big performance tonight," Gallius taunted and his words made him freeze.

He had never sung for a crowd and worried innocently if his voice would still comply. Naively, he refused to believe that he would be giving a performance of a different sort. It did not make sense, not when he had been locked away for it. He could not see why anyone would want to pay for a fright like that.

Only when it was evening and he had been dressed in an undertaker frock, did the horrible truth start to sink in. Torches had been mounted on all four corners of his cage, illuminating him from all angles, no matter where he tried to seek sanctuary. Soon Javert appeared, immaculately made up, wearing a shiny red costume, leading a whole horde of people towards the cage.

"Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, expect to be thrilled for here we have it, the most terrible skeleton, the most vicious of beasts: Le Mort Vivant!"

Incredulous faces, terrified gasps. Erik spun around but they emerged mercilessly, rounded his cage, eyed him bluntly. Children started to wail and scream, grasping for their mother's arms.

"He's dead! That boy is dead! Look, he's decomposing!"

The sour stench of vomit.

"This is monstrous!"

Erik's chest began to heave, his lungs refused to fill with air, making him so breathless that he started to feel dizzy. The crowd was stepping closer now, their greedy hands grasping for him, hitting him, scratching him until he was forced to flee into the centre of the cage where they could not reach him. But still the dark circle drew closer, tightened itself around him like a noose and he was powerless to it, could only bury his face against his body until he made himself disappear, a magic trick he wished to master more than anything.

Around him, the crowd grew disappointed and angry. They had not paid good money, after all, to stare at the shell of a boy. No, they longed to see the gory details. And as their shouts turned more and more vicious and the situation threatened to escalate, Eladon and Gallius suddenly appeared in his cage, thick ropes in their hands. Just as they had done before, they tied him to the bars of the cage, stretched his arms so far away from his body that Erik expected them to pop out of their sockets. The pain was so sharp and searing that he almost wet himself again.

But as the crowd broke into raucous cheers once more, something else took hold of him that eradicated the fear entirely. Hatred. Furious, all-consuming hatred towards mankind and their vulgar amusements. His amber eyes glowed dangerously in the dark as he stared back at their eager faces, vowing to one day take his revenge.


	11. Negligence and Resourcefulness, 1882

_Chapter 10: Paris_

_1882_

Christine Daaé had come to realise what a strange and unreliable construct time was. One moment slow and agonising, in the next rapid and entirely out of control. Still, she used it as a measure to divide her life into two parts. There were the mundane, sluggish hours spent rehearsing, occasionally interspersed with moments of panic when her childhood friend appeared. In those occurrences she could feel his youthful eyes on her, following her, begging her to acknowledge him. And she remained cold, although small pieces of her heart broke bit by bit with every blow that she dealt him, enduring solely because she knew she was acting in his best interest and because she wished to obey her _Angel of Music._ Her lessons with this spirit constituted the second half of her day, one that tended to hurtle forward at break-neck pace, gone in the blink of an eye.

Her dependency on him, his voice, had only grown over the course of the past few weeks that he had indulged in teaching her. Every now and again, when she had strayed far enough from the abandoned dressing room and her thoughts had grown clearer, she loathed herself for her need, for it was foolish to follow anything blindly, even if it happened to be nothing more than a voice. Yet the moment she crossed that threshold, it was as if she herself became entirely changed. She did not see him, yet she felt herself mature under his gaze. Her shyness and innocence still lingered, but made room for curiosity and exploration, one that she hadn't been granted since her childhood days in Sweden.

It was true, of course, that the Opera Ghost was very strict. He had denied her all social functions, all celebrations that would last long into the night and tire her unnecessarily. He required complete and utter devotion and yet, occasionally, he seemed to welcome her curiosity, entertaining her questions with generosity and a sense of humour that astounded her. He seemed to oversee every rehearsal, be involved in every aspect of the running of the opera house. Sometimes, he shared the most outrageous stories about Monsieur Richard and his fanciful affairs, tales so frivolous she felt her face flush. Once or twice he had noticed her delighted discomfort and swiftly moved on to their lesson. Other times he had merely continued talking, embellishing the stories even to watch her squirm. She couldn't be certain of that, of course, but his chuckle so rich and warm and alive had made her think as much.

It was those little details that made her crave him even more, that made her try to picture him not as if he was a spirit but an actual, breathing man, capable of offering his companionship. She felt foolish for holding on to such impossible dreams and even more foolish when, one day, her innermost thoughts slipped over her lips unbidden. His anger was swift and terrible.

"Your mind is distracted, child, distracted by superficial thoughts and desires!" he bellowed, his voice drowning out any attempts of making herself heard. "You must dedicate yourself entirely to your music and never ask to see me again. Such desires only demonstrate a weakness of the soul."

"Please, I did not mean to offend you," she whispered, desperately clawing at the mirror from where his voice emanated, "I _am_ weak. Please, please, forgive me! I will never ask to see you again. I know it is impossible!"

But her words were only met by silence, stony, unmoving quiet. What a silly creature she was, how desperately she must have disappointed him! She vowed to tame her curiosity, knew now that if she gave in to it again it would likely be her undoing, pleaded with him repeatedly but still he did not grant her the comfort of his voice.

The room felt cold and empty and although she knew that he was gone, sensed it with every fibre of her body, she only rose to her feet when she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her pale face was streaked with tears, her eyes bloodshot and her hair a wild, untameable mess. Utterly deranged! It startled her into action, chased her out of the dressing room and down the corridor towards the dormitory. She did not think about the attention her appearance would draw, did not care about it either way, and simply pushed her way to her bed where she curled up and miserably sobbed into her pillow.

* * *

The next morning she awoke as her body was being shaken vigorously. Her head ached in protest and her automatic response was to swat away the offending person who, however, refused to budge.

"Wake up, Christine!" Meg's eager voice made her groan into her pillow.

She did not want to listen to this, not when there were more important things to think about such as the disappearance of her mentor.

"I know you can hear me," Meg insisted, "I know you're awake. Please, listen, I have something that will cheer you up greatly."

Reluctantly, Christine opened her eyes and pushed her dark curls out of her face.

"I am feeling rather unwell…" she tried weakly, but her friend continued to linger.

"You look unwell," she granted, offering a gentle smile, "which is why I've decided to take you out today. You have been in Paris for months now and not seen anything more than this opera house."

Christine thought back to her arrival in the city, her dismay at the state of it and her discomfort at being stuck in the crowd. She knew that Meg meant well but doubted that a venture into Paris would do anything to make her feel better.

"That's very kind of you," she smiled tiredly, "but I'd rather stay here."

They had been granted a rare day of leisure and somehow the thought of locking herself up in the chapel and avoiding all social contact was rather desirable.

"No, Christine, please," Meg insisted, her voice suddenly dropping to a whisper, "you must get away from this, at least for a day. _He_ is working you too hard and it's beginning to show."

" _He_?" Christine echoed, fear filling her eyes and her tone. "What do you mean?"

"You mustn't play games with me," Meg chuckled but her voice remained quiet, "I know the Opera Ghost is teaching you. Oh, don't look so surprised, of course I'd notice. I've seen mother acting just as secretive when he first began talking to her. Then I noticed your daily visits to the chapel growing longer and longer so naturally I became curious."

Christine covered her mouth with her hand while all colour drained from her face. _He_ would not be pleased with her if _he_ discovered that she had failed yet again.

"You were easy enough to follow. It's almost as if you're with your head in the clouds and don't realise anything else that's taking place around you."

"You must never speak of this, Meg," Christine urged her desperately, "he is very strict."

"But he's been kind to me, I'm certain he would not mind. I am pleased he is teaching you, I'm pleased he's come to see your talent, but since it was me who initiated this, allow me to also offer you some respite. I am certain he'd understand. Surely you will sing better once you're rested?"

Christine opened her mouth to argue, to explain that he would not allow her to bend his rules, but then remembrance of the previous night struck, of the terrible silence, of his cruel absence.

"You will show me the city then?" she asked instead, feeling suddenly bold and defiant in light of his misconduct.

She was more than happy to accept that she had made a mistake, that she should never have asked to see him, but she refused to tolerate his dismissal as if she was nothing more than the scorpion music box, to be turned off and on at his whim.

"That's the spirit!" Meg praised, grasping both of her hands and pulling her to her feet.

"Now wash and dress and don't forget your cloak and gloves, it's cold out there."

With a sudden burst of wild enthusiasm she tore herself away and followed Meg's instruction until they both reconvened outside the _Palais Garnier_.

"Are we allowed to leave?" she questioned suddenly, watching the thick queue of automobiles while the snowflakes settled in her hair.

Meg's face grew serious as if the truthfulness behind the question had made her think, then eased into a grin which blossomed into laughter. "Let us assume so and if we get punished let us pretend we did not know any better."

Joining in the laughter, Christine took her hand and allowed her to pull her down the _Boulevard de Capucines_. Despite the cold weather and the grey skies, the pavement was brimming over with people. Horse drawn carriages leisurely jostled through the streets, overtaken frequently by automobiles so flat it seemed impossible to believe they contained passengers. Cafés and restaurants stood shoulder to shoulder, their fronts painted in red, black or gold, eccentrically dressed maître d's lurking near the entrances, giving impassioned speeches designed to draw in the onlookers.

Christine and Meg strolled past the first few, knowing very well that they would not be able to afford dining in either of those establishments. But gradually, as the façades began to change, they stopped and marvelled at it all.

"It's positively scandalous," Meg whispered excitedly.

Through the gaps in the green tinted and elegantly painted window they could watch the people inside noisily going about their business. A whole table of noblemen seemed to be loudly arguing with each other while a couple seated in a corner was engaged in the most inappropriate behaviour imaginable in public. Giggling like silly schoolgirls, they tore themselves away and proceeded further down the street until they reached _La Madeleine_. The imposing structure that appeared largely made up of columns astounded Christine and made her wonder how many more ordinary buildings still existed in Paris.

"Are you afraid of heights?" Meg suddenly asked and Christine turned her attention away from the church and to her friend.

"Not that I'm aware of," she shook her head and watched curiously as the grin on Meg's face broadened.

"Splendid, follow me then."

Meg grasped her hand firmer and dragged her down the street along the outer façade of La Madeleine until they reached a large gate of colourful metal spirals that raked around a large letter "F".

"What is this?" Christine inquired, chuckling nervously now while her eyes travelled up the staircase that had been mounted against the back of the church.

"You'll see," Meg grinned, barging enthusiastically through the gate.

The higher they climbed the more Christine began to doubt that they were really allowed to be there, but in the end a queue of noisily chattering people and a small booth in the centre of the roof put her fears to rest.

"It's a funicular," Meg laid out at last, "designed to connect this bank of the Seine with the south bank and, of course, with the main attraction."

Christine wanted to ask what she meant by that, she had explained it so swiftly as if it was something rather obvious. But the children in the queue in front of them began to move about and point, squealing in delight, barely able to be restrained by their parents. Christine, too, stood on her toes and craned her neck to see what was happening but even when her eyes did see it, did she struggle to make sense of it.

A small brown box, perhaps half the size of a train compartment, was floating through the air, billowing up steam from its one end while large wheels on its roof seemed to hook into an extended line of wire. Christine had not noticed it before as it had blended so well into the grey sky, giving the illusion that it was indeed suspended in the air, flying even. It was a clever contraption, of course, but while she could understand the children's excitement, she also felt a great deal of trepidation when they at last set foot into the gondola. The light motion, the light sway that possessed it was enough to remind her that they were high up in the air, completely at the mercy of a mechanism she did not understand.

"Breath-taking, isn't it?" Meg asked.

She had positioned herself in the middle of the gondola, her face flushed from excitement and cold alike, watching the children press their faces against the wished she could share the sentiment, she truly did, but now that they were high up across the city, jostling gently towards their destination, all she could see was the city's monstrosity. Towers were competing against each other for height, chimneys were visible in the background and even the snowflakes that settled against the glass weren't pristine and white as they had been in Sweden but grey and discoloured, as if ash was floating down from the sky. She glanced up even higher then, at the zeppelins and mighty airships that slowly pushed their own way through invisible streets along the top of the metropolis.

"What's there to see?" she wondered aloud and Meg chuckled when several incredulous faces turned towards her.

"Everything," she answered at last, "only the rich can afford to live there."

"They are apartments?" Christine questioned. "I thought they were merely vehicles."

"Nothing is simple anymore, dear," a stout old gentleman corrected her and the condescension in his tone and the pity in his eyes irked her.

"Some are used for transport," Meg explained patiently, "or otherwise trade. But a lot of the very rich like to live in them, too. It's the ultimate symbol of wealth."

I can see that, Christine thought who could hardly imagine how much such a beast might cost. But there was little other value she could attribute to it. The fog that often surrounded the city seemed to be too thick to offer any view. Even from this height Christine struggled to identify anything of beauty. There was only the Seine, free of boats at this end, and the gilded cupulas of some rather splendid buildings in the distance.

Just when she had opened her mouth to remark that surely one would grow easily bored of what little there was to see, something on the other side of the gondola caught her attention. A tower, tall and cold, seemingly made entirely out of iron, surpassing nearly everything in height and breaking through the thick blanket of clouds.

"Don't say I didn't warn you that this would be astounding!" Meg commented softly, evidently aware of the direction Christine's glance had taken.

She nodded absent-mindedly but kept her eyes on the tower while the funicular slowly and gradually shifted closer. She could make out tents and booths below and even a Ferris Wheel that appeared minuscule now in front of the tower. Occasionally, little rockets would flare up into the sky, erupting into a shower of silver and gold that made the awed onlookers stretch up their hands as if hoping to catch some of the sparks that rained down upon them.

The children in the gondola were growing increasingly restless, the rhythm of their excitement making the compartment shake far harder than Christine would have liked and so she was grateful when they finally reached their destination and disembarked.

"What do you think about our Eiffel Tower then?" Meg prompted. They were standing on the second level, overlooking the giant fair below.

"It's extraordinary," Christine breathed in response, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The happiness in the air was palpable and although the fabric of it all was rather hard and unforgiving, she realised that it had its very own kind of charm.

"I knew you would like it, Little Lotte," announced another voice that made her stomach lurch.

And although she knew who it was, she spun around to make absolutely certain. Raoul's handsome face was smiling back at her. His cheeks were of a healthy red colour, no doubt from the wind that was whipping around the tower, and his eyes twinkled with delight.

"I am indebted to you, Mademoiselle Giry," he continued when Christine remained speechless, "without your help she might have never been tempted outside."

"Just leave it to me, Monsieur le Vicomte," chuckled Meg, tapping the side of her nose. "Now, I'm afraid, I must go. I believe the Baron is awaiting me down there."

"At the food tent, I think," Raoul nodded, "he was going to try out cotton candy."

Meg laughed in delight, gave Christine's shoulder a squeeze and then bounded down the stairs with an ease that made it appear she was walking on two ordinary legs.

"Oh, don't be angry with her, Christine," Raoul began softly when they were both alone, "I asked her to lead you here."

He gently touched her by the elbow and began guiding her down the large staircase as well, the clank of his cane on iron accentuating every step.

"When she told me why you'd been ignoring me I knew that only a ruse could lure you out. You could always be surprisingly stubborn."

Something was tightening her chest, not allowing her to speak. Perhaps there were too many words to find the right one. Instead, a tremor passed through her body that couldn't be suppressed.

"Now where's your red scarf, little Lotte?" Raoul chuckled, squeezing her arm re-assuringly. "After all the trouble I took to fetch it for you."

She knew that he meant well, that he was trying to let her know in his own playful way that he was not angry with her and yet it only caused the tears in her eyes to appear faster. She tried blinking them away so he wouldn't notice, tried watching his hand as it untied his black scarf but only succeeded when something strange caught her eyes. The top half of his shoulders leading up to his neck seemed to consist entirely of gold and before he flicked his collar up against the wind, or so she'd thought, she caught sight of fine silver lines that joint together at the back of his neck leading up to his hairline.

"I had hoped to show you the fair," he continued, extending his scarf to her, "but I'm beginning to see we ought to talk somewhere privately first."

She nodded, hurriedly averting her eyes and busied her hands wrapping the scarf around her own neck. It smelled of Raoul, both familiar and foreign, like someone she yet had to get to know.

In silence, they pushed their way through the crowd, Christine more aware than ever now of their different social status. Curious eyes followed them along their path, accompanied by whispers wondering what the Vicomte was doing with a simple girl. She did not question where he was leading her yet almost stopped short when they entered a park on whose large plain a zeppelin was nestled.

"This is yours?"

Truthfully, she had expected her first words to be something else entirely.

"Yes," he smiled happily, "no longer a sailor but now a pilot."

A tentative chuckle slipped past her lips as the noise of the crowd began to be pushed into the distance.

"Well then, I insist you show me your skills, Monsieur."

"That's better!" Raoul exclaimed excitedly, slipped his hand into hers with an ease that seemed remarkable considering the events of the past, and led her up the gangway and into the zeppelin.

It was a peculiar space, elongated as it was, split into two halves on either side of the door. The left half seemed to form a mixture of living quarters and navigational area. The windows on the right were lined with desks, high stools in front of them. The tables that lined the left window were used as support structures for cooking equipment. In the centre, dividing both, was a large dining table, currently covered with pieces of paper and maps and at the part that constituted the nose of the airship was a large, wooden wheel, its middle adorned by the de Chagny coat of arms. The right half of the zeppelin consisted of drawers and bookcases, filled to the brim with pamphlets and novels and tools. In the far corner was a large double bed, above which another level protruded. Christine could only see the small golden spiral staircase that led up to it but assumed it had to be a bathroom of some kind.

"It is rather different," she remarked after having felt Raoul's curious eyes on her for some time, "but I actually think it happens to suit you."

"I knew it!" he laughed and when he drew her into a carefree embrace she could feel the metal that seemed to cover his back. "Sit and I will explain," he instructed, probably having felt her startle somewhat.

She nodded and did as she was told, shrugging out of her cloak and peeling off her gloves. Raoul, in the meantime, leaned his cane against the cabinets, flung his coat over one of the chairs and then busied himself pouring them something to drink.

"I blame myself, Christine, truly I do. I should not have underestimated the sea in the first place and I should have swallowed my pride and comforted you. It pains me to think you've lived with this guilt for so long and I hate myself for not trying harder to find you and rectify it."

Christine opened her mouth to interrupt but he silenced her gently with a quick gesture before moving to the front of the airship to set in motion a mechanism she could not see.

"My father had no right to blame you and had I not been unconscious I would have told him so. As I've said, I should have found you, fought harder against the restraints of my family but I was young and foolish and somehow convinced myself that you were better off without me, after all. You were raised in the spirit of freedom and the path laid out for me was that of limits and duties. I did not yet dare to believe I could go against those also."

He spoke about the past as if it had taken places decades ago, rather than just six or seven years. He spoke with the kind of maturity she had seen in his walk as well. The airship gave a sudden low rumble as movement jolted through it. She must have uttered a gasp of alarm for Raoul offered her a calming smile from behind the wheel.

"You will get used to it," he assured her, "unfortunately, it's never been quiet during lift-off."

At that explanation, Christine jumped to her feet and bridged the gap to one of the windows to see what was happening with her own eyes. And really, the zeppelin had gained some distance from the ground already, was tilting softly as the wind picked it up. As it moved further and further away, Christine was torn between observing its progress and Raoul who seemed a natural at manoeuvring the heavy vehicle about.

"The doctor said you would not be able to walk again," she offered cautiously when he stepped away from the wheel at last and returned to her side, offering a drink. "Yet here you are?" She left it like that, hoped not to offend him.

"And for several years I didn't," he shook his head, taking a sip from his own glass, "I was confined to a wheelchair, depressed because of all the regrets I carried. Then, one day, I accompanied Philippe to one of the factories father had recently acquired. The country had undergone even more drastic changes at that time and father was struggling to live off his inheritance alone. People from the working class were managing to make a better living because they could create and craft objects more inviting to the new industry. Of course, those skills too have now become redundant that machinery itself has overtaken human labour."

Christine nodded absent-mindedly and listened to the history of a country she had not experienced. She wondered what it must have been like to witness it all gradually rather than being thrown into a very different world that was already fully formed.

"Father, as a nobleman, did not feel comfortable visiting these factories himself but Philippe, ever the realist, was on the lookout for a potential business opening. That visit was the very first instance that I witnessed myself the power of the mechanisation, that I saw what was achievable if one only dared to stray off the main path and make one's own bold choices. I spent many months conducting research into the strangest inventions but, most importantly, other occurrences where the power of the machines had been harnessed to aid that of medicine. England, much more advanced than France, offered a great deal of answers. Before long, I had developed and patented new ways of helping patients who had lost a limb or two. The procedure I proposed for spinal injuries, however, was unprecedented and dangerous and had I not been in a position of wealth and influence and proposed to carry out the very first operation on myself, no doctor would have gone ahead."

Christine's eyes darted to his neck exposed to her fully now that he had removed his winter coat. Understanding her curiosity, Raoul unbuttoned and removed his red waistcoat and tucked the shirt out of his trousers to lift it up. Christine barely contained a gasp when she saw the column of gold that had been pushed into his skin along the line of his spine. Silver beams branched off it, disappeared even deeper into his flesh.

"The metal has replaced the broken vertebrae of my back," Raoul explained, "lending stability to it which it had lacked since the accident. And since metal is a wonderful conductor of electricity, these rods run under my skin also and feed into my brain, fulfilling all the purpose and function of nerve impulse, only that they are artificially created."

She did not know what to say, knew from the genuine excitement in his blue eyes that praise was in order, but she could only think of the terrible pain he must have endured, the great risk he had taken in order to walk again.

"You are a fool, Raoul de Chagny!" she whispered and a moment later flung herself into his arms.

He held her, hesitantly at the beginning with all the shyness of the boy she had first met, and then with the safe, secure arms of a man who knew he had won.

"Yet I can see you are proud," he remarked softly after a while, wiping the tears from the corners of her eye.

"I will not praise you for the risks you have taken," she chastised him sternly, "but I am proud of your ingenuity and your positivity."

He smiled kindly and led her to the front of the aircraft to show her Paris from his very own angle and she had to admit that his explanations and his vast knowledge of the city helped alter the opinion she had previously held. Here, high above the clouds in the company of a dear friend, it was easy enough to forget about her concerns and so it was with a start that she remembered the Opera Ghost and all of his rules she had broken several hours later.

"Raoul, you must return me at once," she begged, grasping his hands firmly in hers, "there is a meeting I must attend and I am already terribly late."

Dismay and suspicion marred his handsome features and she feared for a moment that he might be stubborn and refuse, but then he pulled at the lever that initiated their descent.

"Please, Christine, tell me the truth. Is there another reason why you have been avoiding me?"

She swallowed, bit her tongue, yearned to tell him about the lessons she'd been having but they were no longer children and she was doubtful that he'd believe her. No, best to keep this a secret. If ever there was a need to talk she'd still have Meg to confide in.

"You mustn't think like that Raoul," she spoke gently, shaking her head. "It is a matter of my career and nothing more."

She could tell that he did not entirely believe her but was grateful that he chose not to press her either. Slowly, the large airship descended, settling down almost gently at a church square just to the north of the opera house.

"Follow the _Rue de Mogador_ south towards the Seine," he instructed when they had landed, "it will guide you directly to the _Palais Garnier_."

"Thank you," she breathed, flinging her arms around his neck once again, "I have so missed you, Raoul."

"And I you, Little Lotte," he replied tenderly, running a hand over her dark locks.

When she finally tore herself away to shrug on her cloak and put on her gloves, the warm affection she saw in her friend's eyes very nearly took her breath away. It seemed so simple for him to pick up where they had left off, but Christine knew how much she had changed and wondered silently if they still had enough in common to sustain them once they had fed off all the memories. Raoul for his part seemed oblivious to all concern, wrapped his coat around his shoulders and accompanied her down the gangway.

"I will chase you again if I must!" he called after her.

She chuckled bashfully, too aware of all the curious eyes and hurried back towards the opera house by the way he had described to her.

It happened in the _Rue_ _Scribe_ when she was so lost in thought, so busy trying to process everything that had taken place that she scarcely registered anything around her. A foreign looking man with dark skin and bright green eyes seemed to manifest out of thin air, colliding firmly with her own body.

"I beg your pardon," he mumbled apologetically in a manner that almost endearingly betrayed his accent.

"It was my fault, Monsieur," she demurred, "I did not look where I was going."

Although he offered nothing more than an understanding smile before he departed once more, his face stayed with her until she reached the dormitories. Never before had she seen a face quite so charismatic, full of handsome laughter lines but also wrinkles that betrayed a great amount of grief he must have suffered in his life. She inadvertently found herself wondering about his story, about all the experiences he had to have endured and only realised a moment or two later that a note had been left for her on her bed. Expecting some kind of silly but genuine sentiment from Raoul, passed on by a messenger – for a man who owned and lived in a zeppelin could surely afford a fast courier like that – she was startled to find only two letters in red ink and penned in a spidery handwriting.

_Be prepared_.


	12. Misfits, 1844

_Chapter 11: France_

_1844_

Erik tired of life in a cage, of the lack of privacy, of the dirt and grime. He had come to learn quickly that the gypsies were anything but unhygienic and that the only reason he was forced to live in his own filth was because they did not view him as a human being worthy of the same treatment. He had also come to realise that even their animals were being treated more kindly, the horses especially enjoying a great deal of care and affection. Erik supposed that they had at least that much in common, for he also favoured the company of the animals to that of people. He felt a kind of kinship with them, built on their unwavering comfort and warmth even when confronted with a face such as his.

"Animals are superior," he told Mauro determinedly one day when they were on the road again.

The gypsies went on a yearly pilgrimage to France and the old man had taken to keeping him company in his cage during the journey. He could have remained in one of the caravans, as an elder he was respected by many – a sentiment that did not extend to Javert and his two henchmen – and several members of the kumpaniia had called him insane for refusing, but nothing could have changed in his mind.

Mauro laughed silently and then offered the sign to Erik that showed that he agreed. Erik did not know what was so amusing about his statement but liked seeing the old man smile. He remained silent for a while and focused his attention on the white mare that still pulled his cage as determinedly as ever. He thought about the heat of her body, her softness that showed him just how lonely he was, how much more desperate for touch and interaction he might have been, had Mauro not taken a liking to him.

Humming a little tune, he kicked at the hay that was tickling his bare feet and used his right arm to shift his injured arm into his lap. Even after four years the wound still looked as raw as it had on the very first day. Granted, there was scar tissue now where the most severe burns had been, but his bones were as exposed as ever as was the mobility limited. Necessity had forced him to become ambidextrous, but he still mourned the lightness and efficiency only his left hand had possessed.

Mauro had watched his actions quietly and now lifted his injured arm up to inspect it. With his free hand, he presented Erik with a small knife and a block of wood. He had become rather accomplished at carvings, his work adorning some of the caravans of those astounded enough by the beauty of skill to put aside their fears for one moment. Erik had only just accepted the knife and set its blade against the wood when Mauro punched his shoulder so hard that he flinched and nearly took off the tip of his finger.

"Are you out of your mind?" he signed swiftly and angrily after having set down the items.

"Are you?" the old man stubbornly signed back. "You have been experimenting once again."

He held Erik's arm even closer to his face and then firmly tapped against a piece of bone around which a barely visible leaf had been wrapped. Erik sighed, a sound caught between shame and impatience.

"I truly value your expertise, Mauro, and everything you have taught me but-"

"But you think you know better now, do you?" the old man signed furiously. "Thirteen years of age and suddenly above it all."

Erik chuckled softly and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"No need to be dramatic," he then remarked, "I merely thought it might help ease the inflammation."

Mauro shook his head disapprovingly, freed the cabbage leaf compress and collected the herbs that had been contained within it. Tilting his chin against his chest he sniffed and rigidly shook his head again. "Comfrey is not safe."

"I disagree," Erik signed, dragging his bony shoulders up in a shrug, "I've spent some time reading through your manuscripts while you were sleeping and I've come to the conclusion that it should not be ingested but that it is perfectly safe for external application."

It was true, over the past few months he had developed an interest that bordered on obsession in plants and herbs and their medicinal qualities. And really, it would have been silly not to be at least somewhat curious with a great mentor like Mauro by his side. Yet where Mauro preferred to err on the side of caution or was hindered by the superstitious beliefs of his kind, Erik dared to venture further, his own wound being his favourite test subject. Unlike Mauro he wasn't filled with fear. As far as he was concerned the greatest damage had already been done and he stood to lose little else if one of his herbs did not have the desired effect.

The cage moved about firmly as the caravans left the main road behind and entered a path that led through a forest instead. Kicking some more hay away, Erik shifted so that his feet could wrap around one of the bars, holding him securely in place. Mauro, in the meantime, continued his inspection while Erik wedged the wooden block between his knees and began working on it with his right hand.

He had stopped paying attention to his surroundings during the second or third year of the pilgrimage when he had realised that the route was always the same. There was little excitement to this life now and sometimes he selfishly yearned for carvings on the trees that indicated danger. Something, anything that would rattle the state of this mundane existence. For a trapped man even the promise of liberty was enough but more than that, these fantasies were the key to his sanity. The regular performances did not instil him with the same feeling of dread as before. It had taken a great long time but somehow he had managed to shrug off even these reactions as if they belonged to his childhood, and Erik did not consider himself a boy anymore.

He still was not granted his own tent or caravan and had to be accompanied by someone if he wanted to leave his cage, but it had not gone unnoticed either that he had garnered a certain standing in the ranks of the gypsies. He was the main attraction, the reason why they hadn't gone hungry in four years. Some despised him for it, others offered a begrudging respect although all of them were still frightened. The knowledge did not help Erik when he stood in his cage, gawked at from every angle -there was only a hollowness carved into his chest where his heart should have been - but it helped during the pilgrimage and during the moments when he was not performing. Most things he required were granted to him, books, plants, herbs, blankets and clothes. Mauro stored them in his own chest in his tent where Erik was welcome most of the time. They were what kept him alive during those periods when he could not relate to or feeling anything else.

Another light punch on his shoulder made him stop carving out his little horse statue and made him look up instead.

"We are almost there," Mauro signed and Erik sighed heavily, feeling the gradual decrease in speed also.

He did not care much about the festival. It was nothing more than an annual reminder of his captivity. What was worse, the gypsies were usually so wrapped up in their preparations and, later on, in their own celebrations that he was locked away for hours, unable to distract his mind or stretch his legs.

It did not take long before the clan located the same old clearing again and, after having freed Mauro and removed the little wooden horse and carving knife from him, set about setting up camp. Erik resigned himself to his fate once more, closed his eyes and listened to the symphony of sound. To entertain himself he had decided to hone his senses, a skill that would, no doubt, prove useful one day when he found himself facing danger again. Besides, he rather liked the way it made him appear blasé, as if he feared nothing whatsoever, as if the gypsies' actions had started to bore him.

He could not say how much time passed while he remained seated like that, occasionally pulling his legs up to his chest to get rid of the aches that would otherwise settle. But it was the conversation of two passing men that caught his attention. From the topics they discussed he quickly learned that they were metal workers, a looser part of this gypsy clan. They always joined the kumpaniia for the festival, of course, but otherwise often travelled along their own paths because they, too, contributed a great deal of income. They knew the locations of the best markets to sell their products and would have limited themselves had they stuck with the clan at all times or made the clan take unnecessary detours. Still, Erik had held a great fascination for them since the very beginning. They came in all shapes in sizes, some big and burly with bulging muscles that made them look rather ugly, others spindly thin and sinewy, possessing surprising strength and skill, particularly in creating detailed work.

Erik enjoyed the idea of being able to craft his own weapons but his fantasy did not end there. He reasoned that once the basics were acquired, once he had learned how to bend metal using power, tools or fire, there were no limits as to the things he could create. Unfortunately, Javert had not agreed to let him near them, perhaps in fear that he might obtain the means of escape, or simply because the metal workers did not like his presence. No-one except Mauro had been happy to teach him anything, after all.

"It's changing, it's all changing," one man was whispering to the next. He was still wearing his colourful travelling cloak and looked as if he had only just arrived. "The gadjos are losing their mind! You should have heard their requests!"

Erik frowned curiously and shifted closer to them, as far as the restraints of his cage would allow. This wasn't the first time he had heard them talk like that.

"Metal eyes! Metal arms! Half the time I'm not certain whether they are serious or not."

The notion made Erik feel quite sick as remembrance burned in the pit of his stomach. Had the business of those English quacks really extended so far? Absent-mindedly he rubbed his eyes with his fist. What a dreadful thought! And yet…A metal arm seemed less obscure.

He glanced down at his own limb, tried furling and unfurling his fingers. The response came, slowly and clumsily. Could metal be inserted directly into the skin, however? He knew the gypsies rejected the idea because it went against their beliefs of purity. Metal was only a means to an end, after all, something to be moulded into objects and tools. It did not belong into a body, however useful that might have been. He lifted his left arm with his right and examined the exposed stretch of muscle and bone carefully. What about small pieces of metal carefully inserted? Could they be positioned and controlled so cleverly that they supported the task the damaged muscles no longer could?

All at once ideas blossomed in his mind that begged to be written down, sketched at least and the thought that he might have to wait a day or two was infuriating. He felt the anger rush through his veins, felt how it quickened his heartbeat and in his frustration he kicked at any hay in sight, at anything that kept him locked up here. He only stopped when his bare feet came in contact with something sharp, sharp enough to nick some of the skin off. The thudding in his head momentarily lessened as he moved to sit on all fours to investigate.

A knife! He could not believe his eyes. Mauro, the sly old man had really managed to leave one behind. Surely he must have known that the gypsies would be so intent on preparing for the festival that they'd forget to search his cage as thoroughly as they usually did. Freedom was still an abstract concept, however, and he knew that he could not run away. It would only take a minute for Mauro to be blamed and punished severely, and Erik could not have that on his conscience. But he would take advantage of this gift that had been extended to him nonetheless.

With as much patience as he could muster, he waited until night time before he used the knife to jiggle open the lock on his cage. Music and the beat of drums were emanating from the area around the bonfire but still he opened the door as softly as he could. When he finally stepped outside, he breathed in the evening air that mingled with the smoke and stretched his aching body. Then he darted off into the shadow of the forest, keeping his footsteps light. He had almost forgotten how beautiful the night was, how absolutely perfect and still. Leaves rustled faintly underneath his soles, blades of grass tickled them; everything smelled of nature and life.

The babbling of a brook drew his attention and, desperate to wash himself, he drew nearer. The figure didn't register at all, so relieved was he to lower his hands into the cool wetness. It was only when the first handful of water had washed away the grime on his face that he heard a similar sound just a few paces away and his head jerked up. Around the next bend he saw the naked figure, hefty but full of curves, round breasts transitioning smoothly into an even rounder stomach. He drew in a sharp breath and took a step backwards. There was something familiar about the figure that forced him to keep staring. It was in the moment when recognition struck that their eyes met.

_Javert_.

All his instincts told him to run and yet he found himself paralysed. Whatever fear may have appeared in Javert's eyes quickly vanished.

"So our songbird has finally flown the nest?"

Erik swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed. He watched the figure draw closer, the naked figure, the naked female figure.

"I only required a wash," he stated, then squared his shoulders and tried finding a firmer voice. "You won't punish me."

"And why is that?" Javert grinned.

"Because I know your secret now and I will expose you."

The blonde rug on her head was dripping. She laughed and her bosom bounced. A deep white mark ran across it just above the areola as if a belt had been wrapped around it, cutting off thorough circulation.

"What a man you have become, little corpse."

The voice was still the same, deep and strangely soft as it had always been. Erik did not like the greed in her eyes, the hunger that seemed to devour his body.

"I want to be able to wash, like the rest of you. I want a tent, I want to be taught by the metal workers."

"Quite a lot of demands." Her hands came to rest on his chest and he willed himself to stand his ground. "But you won't run away. I know you won't. No-one else would tolerate you as we have done. You are one of us, one of the misfits of society."

Her stomach was boring into his.

"Do we have a deal?" he ground out.

"Not quite," Javert chuckled huskily. "You demand a lot, yet you owe me, too, for I could easily have killed you. I have been keeping you alive for the past four years, remember? You owe me."

The whisper snaked around his neck until he tasted bile.

"What do you want?"

"The same thing I've always done. I want you to sing. We both know you could earn more money, more power."

Power was enticing, it spelled privacy and liberties. But the thought of dirtying the beauty of his voice with the ugliness of the performance was too terrible.

"No!" he stated firmly, shaking his head.

"Then we have no deal," Javert chuckled.

He would not make it out alive, Mauro would not make it out alive. His brain raced as he tried to come up with a solution.

"I will wear a mask while I sing," he offered, the words coming out in short bursts, "you will give me flowers and I will make them sing. It will be a funereal affair. We will build a coffin, there will be lilies and I will sing my own requiem. Then, at the very end I will take off my mask."

"Make flowers sing?" The pale eyebrows scrunched into a frown. "You have spent too much time with that old fool."

Erik swallowed again, tried desperately to soothe his nerves and then projected his voice into a nearby tree. At once it became alive with song, a low melody that rumbled forth. Ventriloquism was a skill that required control but thankfully one easily accessible for someone as desperate for control as Erik. The idea had occurred to him during the first night in Mauro's tent when the old man had so solemnly felt his vocal cords. From then on he had practised time and time again to create the same swing without parting his lips entirely.

Javert now looked as bewildered as she looked pleased.

"Such skill, my little corpse," she laughed, "combined with your good looks you could be a regular Don Juan."

He shuddered, felt dreadful anger well up in him, anger so strong it nearly enabled him to close his hands around the fat flaps of skin that constituted her neck. It was only the knowledge that his left hand would have lacked the strength that stopped him.

"You shall have your tent and your wish to play with metal, and the performance will take place as you've laid out. Still, I'm doing you a rather great deal of favours. You should do me at least one more in return."

She did not give him the chance to respond but peeled the clothes off his body while he remained paralysed, dread beating its terrible rhythm in his chest.

"Or perhaps I am doing you yet another favour," she hummed.

Erik could not say what happened next, not even months later when similar occurrences took place in the privacy of her caravan. He could only describe the night air, suddenly harsh on his unwillingly exposed skin, the revulsion he felt at every touch, at every caress. He could remember thinking of Mauro and his rare but carefree smile, he could remember thinking of his mother and Dr Barye. He remembered thinking about metal, hard and firm, bent against its will into something of purpose. He remembered thinking that all deals came with sacrifices, that every single wish he possessed required payment. He remembered the ice of the water pooling around his ankles, the stars that twinkled through the roof of trees. He remembered fading away.


	13. Marguerite and Mephistopheles, 1882

_Chapter 12: Paris_

_1882_

Christine struggled to sleep that night. Her head was too full with fantastical airships that had been turned into houses, foreign-looking men weeping over losses so dreadful even she could not conjure up fitting images, and spidery letters, crawling all over her. She knew, of course, that the mysterious note had been left there by _him_ or by Madame Giry in _his_ name, but although it was meant to be an instruction, an order at most, she could not help thinking of it as more of a threat.

_Be prepared_.

Prepared for what? He had not spoken to her at all and now she was meant to simply know what he intended with this cryptic message? She could have gone to the mirror, but the note had diminished her desire to beg for his attention. Besides, she reasoned that he would not have been there waiting for her, having felt the necessity to send a note at all.

At some point in the night while she was wrecking her brain trying to figure out what the Opera Ghost might have in store for her, she heard the faint sound of the dormitory door opening and then closing, followed by timid footsteps crossing the wooden floor. She did not need to peer into the darkness to know that it was Meg who had finally returned as well, though she did ponder momentarily whether to draw attention to herself to hear what Meg would have to say to the note. But then she remembered that the Opera Ghost had always been kind to her and that, consequently, she'd either refuse to believe the note was from him at all or be determined to put a positive spin on it. Sadly, that wouldn't be of help. What she needed was someone calm and rational and unbiased. But no-one like that was to be found and certainly not now in the dead of night. So reluctantly, Christine shifted around on her mattress and willed herself to go to sleep.

Morning came far too quickly and with it the first dress rehearsal for _Faust._ They had exactly one week left until the Opera premiered and Christine would have felt more nervousness at the prospect of performing for the first time in front of such a large crowd, had her mind not still been clouded from her sleepless night. Shadows seemed to be lurking everywhere and even the slightest, foreign-sounding noise startled her. If the Opera Ghost had desired to put her into a constant state of alertness he had certainly succeeded.

"What's the matter, Christine?" whispered Mina when she had been caught glancing over her shoulder repeatedly.

"Your face is dreadfully pale," Meg chimed in.

Christine could read the question in her eyes, wondering if Raoul had done anything to cause this kind of behaviour, but the notion was so absurd that she only quickly shook her head and then tried focusing on the rehearsal once more.

The managers, usually so jovial and patient, were pacing along the edge of the stage, wondering noisily where the rest of the ensemble was and cursing the other for inviting the cleaners at a time that truly wasn't convenient. For the cleaners in question weren't the normal kind and robust women that bustled about with feather dusters, brooms and mops. These were men in strange uniforms, hoods drawn over their heads and goggles in front of their eyes, walking through the aisles with big monstrosities on their backs that caused a hell of a racket.

Trying to ignore all this, the chorus girls under the trusted guidance of Katarina began warming up once more. It wasn't the first time that Christine thought they actually happened to be more professional and mature than the rest. Or perhaps they'd simply not become so jaded yet by the whole business to strive to do their best.

When at last the doors to the auditorium were flung open, nobody seemed to notice La Carlotta. The noise the cleaners created had cancelled everything else out. The smirk on the diva's face wavered for only a second before she confidently strode up to the stage embracing both of the managers.

"I'm afraid Ubaldo has been taken ill," she informed them, her voice surprisingly pleasant for such dreadful news.

The managers, on the other hand, blanched instantly, realising that a dress rehearsal without the man playing the lead role was more akin to a travesty than to anything else.

"I hope it is nothing bad?" Moncharmin inquired politely, gesturing sharply for the cleaners to stop.

"Just a spot of food poisoning!" Carlotta announced loudly. "I am sure he will be back with us before long."

Christine remained perplexed by the diva's strange announcement and the smug look on her face. It almost felt as if Carlotta had been addressing someone other than the managers, as if her companion's illness had made her triumph in some way. Christine shook her head silently, there just wasn't any sense to be made of it.

The managers bustled about for a couple of minutes before finding their footing again and starting the rehearsal at a place that suited those present. It was a tedious process that required a great deal of repetition and Christine only truly started to value it a couple of days later when the rehearsal was undertaken utilising the full ensemble. It felt far less disjointed then and the energy that coursed through everyone on stage was exhilarating.

Sometimes, Christine became so swept up in it all that she forgot about the mysterious note entirely, other times she remembered it with a start and nervously looked about her, as if she would find the answer in Mephistopheles's smoke or in the flurry of colours in the swirling garments. By opening night she had almost succeeded in convincing herself that the note had been nothing more than a nasty prank, a payback of sorts from Laurette and Simone who still weren't pleased that she had been accepted into the folds of the chorus girls. She had never seen the Opera Ghost's writing, after all, and only hastily jumped to conclusions. She would not do the girls the favour of acting nervously any longer, she'd be calm and composed and do her best as she had always done.

Still, tensions were high on opening night and more than one girl darted briskly towards the bathroom. Trying not to let her own anxiety get the better of her and turn her stomach, Christine stood a few paces away, staring into the dark tunnel that were the wings. Above the whispered exchanges of the chorus girls, Christine could make out a kind of buzz that seemed to fill the auditorium. The sound only grew as time passed and she nervously tugged at her costume which was suddenly feeling too tight and glared up at the lights that were surely much too hot even though neither of them was directly shining upon her.

She thought of her father and the delighted smile that had appeared on his face just before a performance and wondered how long it had taken him to acquire such calm. She only willed time to move faster so that this whole evening may be over quickly and behind her. She wanted to make him proud.

"A guest here to see you," Meg suddenly announced, tapping her shoulder.

Christine turned around, wiping her hands on her costume and looked instantly into Raoul's kind eyes. He seemed to have parted the chorus girls behind her, some of which were staring up at him with undisguised admiration, others shot curious glances in her direction.

"Oh, Christine," he chuckled, drawing her confidently against his chest, "you must remember to breathe."

I must look dreadful, she thought, if my nerves are so apparent.

Carefully, she wrapped her arms around Raoul again and patted his back lightly. The cologne that lingered on his shirt was foreign, but the pressure of his pocket watch against her abdomen was familiar enough to offer her some comfort. He seemed completely oblivious to the rumours he was causing and so for his sake, as much as for hers, she quickly stepped away again and gave his hands a squeeze.

"I will try, Raoul, though I am certain I would not be the first ballerina to faint on stage."

He chuckled warmly and gently grazed her cheek with his knuckles. "Nonsense, you'll do marvellously."

She was opening her mouth to respond when the two managers suddenly appeared, wearing identical grave expressions.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, why don't you take a seat in our box?" Moncharmin asked and the smile he offered refused to remain fixed on his face.

Raoul's blue eyes narrowed and she could tell that he was trying to assess the situation. "Is something the matter?"

"The matter?" Richard repeated, laughing so heartily that his belly bounced.

"Of course not, of course not," Moncharmin hurriedly added, pushing his trademark goggles to the crown of his head, "we'd merely like a quick word with Mademoiselle Daaé."

Her heart seemed to stop at that very moment and the two little mysterious words in red ink seemed forever singed into her conscience. And she was not prepared, not in the slightest. Still, she found herself nodding, found Raoul's eyes curiously boring into hers as she followed the managers towards a quieter spot. She wished she could have answered his question, wished she knew herself what was about to happen next.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," Monsieur Moncharmin began, clearing his throat nervously, "do forgive us for interrupting your conversation with our lovely patron. We would not have done it if the matter wasn't urgent."

The fear made her breathless. The way she was being addressed was unusual and somewhat inauthentic, she thought.

"You must not breathe a word of this to anyone else," Richard warned her sternly, wagging one of his short, stumpy fingers in her face.

"No, of course not," she found herself saying even though she had no idea what she was agreeing to.

"La Carlotta is gone…" Richard broke the news gravely while a sharp whistling sound escaped Moncharmin's teeth.

"She's indisposed," he corrected swiftly. "I'm certain you see the conundrum. A full house, only minutes until the curtain goes up."

"Why yes, of course," Christine nodded quickly, wondering what had happened to the diva. "But, I'm sorry, I don't see what that has to do with me?"

The managers exchanged nervous glances that had her ball her fists in impatience. If she had somehow become entwined with La Carlotta's misfortune she preferred hearing about it quickly. The long-lasting suspense was doing nothing for her nerves.

"You see, you have been suggested to us as an understudy by a very…trustworthy…source."

Surely Raoul could not have done such a naïve thing, surely even Meg wouldn't have. Once more, her thoughts returned to the falling set piece, to the viciousness of the violin. Yet she did not want to believe that _he_ would do this to her. Surely _he_ did not consider her ready. _He_ could not. Knowing the arias and the lyrics was one thing, taking to the stage in a main role without ever having rehearsed the part was utterly impossible.

"Our fate lies in your hands, Mademoiselle Daaé," Moncharmin insisted, lifting her hand to his lips just as he had done with Carlotta's.

Christine took a hasty step backwards and sought the nearest way out. But there was none. If she refused she'd let the whole company down and the managers would surely not forgive her. There was no life for her outside these walls, this was her only chance unless she wanted to live with Raoul in his airship, using his money and growing bored of the same old routine while he conducted his business. No, there was no way out. She was cornered, drowning in the noise of the throng.

"I'll do it," she whispered in an unrecognisably thin voice.

The praise she garnered was nothing more than waves crashing over her already submerged head. The managers led her past Meg who looked excited if also puzzled, past Raoul who smiled at her encouragingly before he strode up to his box. They tore a line through the chorus girls who wondered what had occurred and then to the costume departments where a group of tense seamstresses worked hurriedly to alter Marguerite's dress to her measurements. Needles pricked her skin but kept her grounded when her thoughts threatened to sneak off to a place that was empty and hollow.

There were too many words and too much silence as she made her entrance in front of the expectant crowd. They had not come to see her, a nameless girl, a nobody and wasted no time making their disappointment known. And against this barrier she had to sing, had to somehow find the courage and strength to make herself heard. But even when the boos subsided and the crowd rose in applause once the nightmare was over, Christine could not connect to it. She knew she had hit every note perfectly, had acted as well as she possibly could have, but she also knew that her voice had been thin and breathless, she knew that her father would have been disappointed.

So when the curtain fell she ran away. She did not stop to think that she was still clad in Marguerite's light blue dress, did not hear the congratulatory voices.

"Christine!"

His voice she could not ignore and she did not need to look over her shoulder to know that he was following her down the corridor towards the dormitory.

"Please, Meg, send him away!" she whispered, when the blonde appeared by her side.

She could not bear to see Raoul now, did not wish to hear his praise when she knew it was only out of the kindness of his heart, when she knew it had no merit to it. When the blonde turned away from her to do as she had been asked, Christine bypassed the dormitory and continued swiftly until the end and the abandoned dressing room. She ought to have been furious with _him_ , she knew, but the feeling was overshadowed by the overwhelming notion of disappointment. _He_ had given her a test and she had failed dismally.

The dressing room was deserted, pitch-black and so silent that the door falling closed behind her seemed thunderous. She fumbled her way to the mirror, fell to her knees and wept. All the tension she had carried on her shoulders since the note had arrived broke out of her as she rocked herself back and forth.

"Dry your eyes, child."

The sound of his voice made her gasp, tears of elation mixing with tears of sorrow.

"Forgive me, please forgive me," she whispered, frantically feeling the cool surface of the mirror.

"Oh, Christine…"

She had never heard him speak like that with such regret with such…humanity.

"I cannot bear to see you cry."

"But I have failed you!" she insisted. "I do not belong here. I cannot bear the scrutinising eyes of the masses, I cannot bear to hear another word of judgement!" Her fingers curled into her hair, tugged at the strands until her nails scraped over her scalp. "Take me with you, I beg of you. I cannot bear to face it."

Silence stretched on mercilessly, accentuated only by a heavy sigh that appeared to float forth from the mirror itself. And then he sang for her, a heavenly peaceful melody that possessed the power to make her weep more fervently while soothing her heart at the same time. It was of unbearable beauty. The longer it continued, the more it lulled her senses, beckoned her to close her eyes and hand herself over entirely. She willingly obliged, too starved by the silence that had existed between them to resist.

And when the mirror parted before her, she automatically rose to her feet and took a step closer to the figure revealed to her. He was tall and magnificently framed by darkness, his silhouette illuminated only by a torch mounted behind him. Her breath caught in her throat as she breached the threshold, feeling a pull so strong she did not turn her head when someone knocked harshly on the dressing room door and called out her name.

She could not see his face for the hat he wore threw a shadow that concealed everything but she trusted him, him and the mesmerising sound of his voice. Her fingers slipped into his gloved hand, yearned to connect with warm skin instead of cold leather but it was enough, he was enough. He had not abandoned her, had not rejected her when she had proven nothing but weak and unworthy.

He guided her down a passageway of unearthly quality. Her mind remained dazed and her eyes too weary from the darkness to register much, but occasionally she noticed carvings and paintings upon the walls of such beauty, there was no doubt on her mind that she was in his world now. He guided her lower and lower and the timbre of his voice calmed her and the pressure of his hand comforted her. And when at last the walls parted, she was granted a view so strange and magnificent it made her stop in her tracks.

Before them in the dark glistened a large lake, so large in fact that her watering eyes could not make out where it ended. But in its middle lay a house of peculiar proportions. The square foundation floated in the water itself, the side exposed to them adorned by wooden planks that formed a gangway and a large pipe that led into the depth of the lake. Archways and columns of different style and material formed the border of the house while on the topmost floor mismatched towers spiralled towards the roof of the cave. One made entirely out of glass ending in a circular dome reminiscent of a green house. The other the size and appearance of an ordinary cottage, adorned by a beautifully crafted clock with Roman numerals.

"Welcome, child, to the netherworld."

She turned to look at him at last to say the words only half-formed on her tongue but found herself unable to speak at all when she stared into amber eyes and at a mask of pure gold that remained unmoving even when his voice addressed her again. Her knees buckled then and her vision swam until the figure before her was swallowed up by darkness.


	14. The End of Innocence, 1848

_Chapter 13: Romania_

_1848_

Romania was the closest thing to home. Romania meant crisp, cool mountain air and leisure time to sketch the beautiful views until sun set. Romania meant no undertaker clothing but a white, flaring shirt, black vest and trousers, boots and a hat like the rest of the gypsy boys. Romania meant ultimate freedom…as far as freedom went these days.

Whenever he could, he rose early to abandon the camp at the crack of dawn and go exploring for as long as he desired. There were limitations to his excursions, of course, for even here not everyone tolerated a gypsy, especially not one who hid his face behind a mask, but it was something. Javert knew he'd return eventually, knew that he wouldn't make it very far without the safety of the kumpaniia.

But Erik still primarily stayed for the sake of Mauro who had grown frail in his old age. Where he had once granted Erik a kind of sanctuary in his tent, Erik had now convinced him to join him in his. His tent was by far the greatest and most luxurious in the gypsy camp and he had accumulated enough possessions to keep Mauro warm when he had caught a chill or make him draughts if he was feeling unwell. Still, he knew that it wouldn't be long before Mauro would slip through his fingers, a thought which filled him with dread so strong he rather quickly pushed it away.

This morning, he abandoned the tent only long enough to steal some milk from a nearby farm and to pluck some leaves that would make a particularly palatable yet medicinal tea. Then he returned again and knelt down by the old man's side.

"Mauro," he gently touched his shoulder to alert him to his presence.

A flicker of a smile passed over the old man's features as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows. Erik was quick to help him and slid a few more cushions under his back to support him.

"Have some milk," he signed, "it will do your bones good."

When his hand had formed the last sign he pushed the bottle into Mauro's hands and watched as he drank. His fingers had become nearly as skeletal as Erik's, his coordination so clumsy that some of the milk dripped down his chin and onto his chest. But Erik only smiled patiently and dabbed it away.

"I will make you some tea and some stew to have while I am gone," he explained next, turning to light a fire.

Truthfully, he was in two minds about this. Never before had he been granted to attend the great market of Bucharest with the metal workers and he knew it was likely to be his only chance to purchase the pieces necessary to finalise work on his arm. Yet he did not like the idea of straying from Mauro's side for as long as a whole day. He had changed his mind about this several times in the past few days, sometimes figuring that patience was called for since he could surely attend the market another year when Mauro no longer required his attention, at other times suffering the strain the inferior products were putting on his arm and knowing he desperately needed to upgrade them.

His arm had become a work in progress. In a painstaking process, he had burned away the remnants of scar tissue on his hand, rendering it completely immobile since he had also touched the nerve-endings at the bottom of his palm. This endeavour alone had made him stranded in his tent for days, fighting off a terrible fever, an infection that grew even worse when he finally encased the bones of his fingers in bronze and connected the material to a small chain of cogs and wheels. The remaining tissue seemed adamant at rejecting the foreign objects and the set-back paralysed him for months. That's when he began to suspect that the metal workers weren't inclined to pay much attention to the quality of the material they brought back to him. If he perished they would still be able to provide their own livelihood, after all. Still, he was too impatient to wait around longer and improved his hand as much as he could with what little he could get. But infections became common as rust set in and he was determined to alter his arm for the better, permanently.

He had spent a great many hours on his sketches and knew that, once at the market, he'd be able to purchase just what he needed. If only there was someone he could entrust with Mauro's care. To appease his conscience, he prepared everything the old man may need in his absence and positioned it clearly within his reach.

"I will be back by sunset," he signed then, giving the wrinkly hands a squeeze and pecking the now bald head.

As if sensing his concerns, Mauro grasped his hand back as firmly as he could and held it for a moment between his own trembling ones. Somehow, it felt a little bit like a final goodbye. But he could not allow himself to dwell on it, there simply wasn't time. Wrapping himself in a traveller cloak, he strode out of the tent and towards his chestnut-coloured mare. She had become assigned to him after the white mare had passed away. Like most gypsy boys, Erik, too, had taken to riding horses without saddles or reins, trusting their willingness to carry him instead and establishing a bond. He swung the bags over her back and climbed on, rubbing her long slender neck with his ordinary hand.

"We have a long journey ahead of us today," he whispered and chuckled when she flicked her ears about.

Then he very gently applied pressure to her flanks and trotted off towards the tents of the metal workers who were busy filling up their carts and readying their horses. They only acknowledged him with a brief, cold stare and then continued as if he wasn't there until their little group was fully prepared to draw out of the camp.

Their journey took them from between the peaks of the mountains down to the valley and from there ever south to Bucharest. The orange hues of the rising sun soon faded and gave way to brilliantly blue sky, magnificently framed by the lush green of forests around them. It truly was a beautiful day, a last push of summer for radiance and warmth before the gloom of autumn would sweep over the land.

Erik sat comfortably on his mare; the movement had become so familiar to him that it enabled him to unwind and chase after one or two thoughts that ghosted around in his head. After several hours the landscape around them became dotted with houses that gradually grew into settlements before the city's larger buildings loomed ahead of them. Erik sat up straighter then, instilling his posture with a sense of power that would thwart off enemies and discourage any curious glances. He had learned that presenting himself in a certain way, if only performing the part of the pitiable corpse when he chose to, would give him an air of being untouchable. He loved that, revered it almost. Better to be alone and in control than surrounded by a multitude of curious eyes and ruthless mouths.

Despite his attempts, however, the gypsies drew attention the moment they passed through the city gates and Erik swiftly urged his horse to catch up with their train. Being a straggler could, indeed, be dangerous. Their nonchalant behaviour, however, surprised him. He had observed the methods of the kumpaniia previously. Sometimes groups of women had emerged from their caravans and congregated at the front, serenading the throng with old, traditional tunes that helped them maintain peace and very occasionally garnered them some coin. On other occasions they had remained silent, offering pleasant smiles to the onlookers while the children had stolen out of the caravans, instructed to relieve the unknowing masses of their purses. This cold indifference, however, he had never encountered.

The market came as a positive surprise. It was as if the odds and ends of the world had decided to accumulate there. There were members of different clans, godja crafters and, rather excitingly so, a new clientele of peculiarly dressed men and women. Some of them were filtering through the crowd, examining the products through thick-rimmed goggles, there were tables set up in the corner overcast by mist and strange animal-like contraptions blowing steam into the air. Several people wore cogs and wheels on their waistcoats and dresses, others had them directly implanted into their skin and wore them like jewellery. Limbs, however, made entirely out of metal appeared to be a rarity.

He was almost disappointed that he needed to follow the metal workers of his kumpaniia. But there was no point pushing that particular boundary just yet. The deal to accompany them had taken such personal sacrifices that he did not want to be punished for a curiosity that could easily be contained for just a moment longer. No, he would be calm and composed, help set up their stall and disappear when they did not need him around anymore. Still, time moved by only sluggishly and his amber eyes slid longingly over the curious crowd. It was only in the late afternoon when one of the metal workers finally gave the curt nod that relieved him of his duty and without hesitation he went.

The steam had an almost magical pull upon him and he followed it without abandon. With all the products and mechanics on display, it did not take long before his purse was all but empty. Still, there was so much more to see.

"Come closer, Sir, come closer!" a man standing by a corner stall called, beckoning to him.

Just like Erik, he wore a mask which was why, perhaps, he seemed more interested in his arm. Erik, though, was positively intrigued by it as he had never before encountered people who hid their faces like he did. It was also the first time he had been addressed as "Sir" and the respect in the title flattered him.

"I'm afraid I've nearly spent all my money," Erik confessed, stepping closer nonetheless.

His eyes darted wildly across the goods laid out on the table. There were wires and rods of varying metals, wheels and cogs and screws to fasten them, more of the same, truthfully, and yet something about this stall made Erik linger.

"You are building your own limb, I can see that. Nice craftsmanship!"

Erik lifted up his left arm so that the man could inspect it further.

"But you're going about it the wrong way. First of all, flesh is useless. It will only hinder progress, trust me on that. You'd do far better to remove the limb altogether and replace it with a metal one. Secondly, you're missing the right mechanism."

For a moment he crouched down and disappeared behind his stall but when he emerged again he was holding a strange, medium-sized contraption that curved slightly in one direction.

"What is it?" Erik asked curiously and the eyes behind the mask gleamed.

"It connects the metal arm smoothly to the original arm left over after the amputation, but what's more," he paused to demonstrate, "this series of chains will allow for better movement. You will be able to flex your arm, you can even adjust it so that it controls the rods that make up the fingers."

He placed it into Erik's hand who held it up into the light to inspect it. It did not take long for his keen eyes to notice that the man was clearly overselling his product and yet…and yet the potential was there.

"I have no desire to lose my limb entirely, Sir," he answered with cool politeness, "and I'd be inclined to buy your product if only it was a little more refined."

He could watch the anger build up in the other man's body.

"Are you doubting my abilities, Sir?"

Erik drew his shoulders up in a lazy shrug. "There are superior products for sale elsewhere."

Perhaps if he dropped the price a little, for Erik was under no illusion that he would demand an outrageous sum of money for it, he might be able to buy it. He yearned to take it apart in the safety of his tent so that he might learn more about it.

"Such a cheek, boy!" the man hollered furiously. "You will find no finer craftsmanship, no greater talent than me!"

And in a flurry of angry energy, he tore off his mask and exposed his face to him. The sight very nearly took his breath away. There was no trace of skin left anymore. The whole face was made out of red-coloured metal; beautifully painted and grinded dips and lines giving it the structure and detail of an actual face. The bridge of the nose was held in black tones while the nostrils were entirely silver. His eyebrows were gold and spikey and his eyes crafted from beautiful blue shards. Everything about it was of such unbelievable brilliance he felt tears well up. Perhaps there was hope for him yet, perhaps he could fit into a world like this, after all.

"Accept my sincerest apologies, Sir," he spoke, clearing his throat to rid it of all the emotions coursing through him. "I had underestimated your abilities."

But the man only shook his head and pulled the mask back down over his face.

"Leave, boy," he said coolly and, unable to bear his gaze any longer, Erik did as he had been told.

Remorse settled in his stomach but only fleetingly as he considered how much more he could have discovered about this art if he hadn't so bluntly spoken his mind. Most of the journey home, however, he spent recalling every little detail of the face he had seen. It was of great importance that he would soon commit it to paper. He needed to understand how it all worked, how he could see through eyes made out of glass.

The silence of the countryside came as a welcome change after the noise and the crowds of the market. The wind softly blew around him, fanned back his cloak as he mulled over the events of the day. The camp lay quiet and dark before them as well as most occupants had withdrawn into their tents and carriages, accustomed to not drawing attention to themselves.

Erik dismounted his horse and saw that she was tended to and then swiftly strode to his own tent to check up on Mauro. The old man still lay curled up on his side, just as he had been this morning but Erik was relieved to find him smiling and responsive when he entered.

"You look happy," he signed slowly and Erik nodded.

"It's been a good day."

Carefully, he lowered the saddlebags upon his mattress and opened them to show Mauro all the goods he'd acquired. With a great deal of effort, the old man propped himself up to see better and Erik did his best to help him slowly inspect each item until the heavy beating of hooves on the ground and a discord of voices drew his attention away.

"Trouble," signed Mauro.

He had, no doubt, felt the disturbance and noticed the way Erik's head had suddenly jerked towards the entrance. He wished he could protest but his instinct, too, told him that something wasn't right. Asking Mauro to stay where he was, he pulled himself upright once more and stalked outside to investigate.

The noise, it seemed, had compelled nearly all of the kumpaniia to step out of their caravans. Javert, Gallius, Eladon as well as a group of other men had crashed the deserted bonfire and thrown something small down to the ground. With growing disgust Erik realised that it wasn't some object they had acquired but another person who was wiggling desperately about.

"Ah, here he is. The man himself!" Javert jeered when she saw his shadow looming. "We have acquired something rather special today. Come take a look, get acquainted. She will be training under you very soon to expand our freak show."

Erik slowly furled his metal fingers into a fist and then silently strode to inspect the moving figure before the fire. She was small, much smaller than he had at first realised. A young girl perhaps seven or eight years his junior with short dark hair and pleading green eyes. Dirt was caked onto her face, interrupted only by streaks of tears. He was so captivated by the desperation he saw that it took a moment before he realised that she was missing both of her arms. Still, understanding only came slowly as if he had left his own body behind and was watching events unfold from a faraway place. Javert had found another child to imprison, to abuse to God knows what extent.

Despite the anger he felt, he forced himself to smile at the girl and with cool calm he undid the rope that was tied around her legs.

"What's your name?" he inquired politely and helped steady her when she tried to stand up.

"What a touching scene," Javert sneered in the background but he paid her no heed.

Instead, he focused all his attention on the girl who had quizzically drawn her eyebrows together.

"I'm Erik," he explained quietly, pointing to himself, "and you?"

He extended his hand to her.

"Mary?"

Her bottom lip trembled as if she feared a wrong answer could get her into more trouble. He wondered if they had stolen her from her parents or if she had been wandering around by herself. He nodded encouragingly in response and indicated that she should follow him. The further he could draw her away from Javert, the better. But when he turned he was surprised to find himself suddenly face to face with Mauro. The old man had silently left the tent and was leaning on his walking stick.

"Keep walking," he signed with his free hand and Erik followed his instruction until he registered the strange emotion in Mauro's eyes.

But when he stopped and turned it was already too late. He could only watch as Mauro drop something into the fire, something that made the flames flash angrily into the night sky, their long arms whipping at everything in sight. The group of onlookers dispersed, their screams ringing through the air. And Erik knew what he had to do, what Mauro had really meant to tell him.

"Run," he whispered to the girl, thrusting his hands forward to convey what he meant, "run!"

There was so much more he wished to tell her. Keep away from the open road, drink from running streams only, stay warm. But he could not waste more time making her understand, she stood such little chance as it was. Still, she nodded fiercely and the frightened but determined look in her eyes filled him with renewed hope.

But he had to act fast for Mauro's actions would, no doubt, have angered Javert.

The air was strangely still when it happened. Gallius and Eladon, half devoured by the flames had stopped screaming and the fire had shrunk down to its normal size again. And yet, nothing was as it once had been. Mauro was no longer leaning on his stick, instead it seemed as if Javert was holding him. But Javert was standing too close and Mauro's kind, wrinkled face was torn into a grimace of pain. Blood was gushing from some invisible wound, draining him of all colour.

And Erik screamed, screamed in such anguish that his voice cracked. And then he lunged forward, parted the two figures so that Mauro folded forward and fell onto the ground. Erik landed on Javert with such force that his bones ground into hers.

"Last warning," Javert chuckled. He was close enough to see the blood on her hands. "He never stopped meddling."

Erik stared into the hateful eyes, watched the thin lips that had touched him most repulsively, most intimately form empty words, all the while something snapped inside him.

It was his metal hand that came crashing down on her skull time and time again until the sickening crunch gave way to sloshing wetness. He wept for everything she had taken from him until this very day, then stared into the destroyed face, the left behind unseeing eye that continued to stare up towards the sky.

Then he gathered himself, gathered his belongings and strapped them to his mare. At last, he returned for Mauro, lifted the frail body into his arms and carried him to his horse as well. No-one would dare follow him now and no-one would stop him from giving Mauro the burial he deserved somewhere in a place of beauty where sun touched earth. In his heart, however, the last ray of kindness had been extinguished.


	15. "E"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos!

_Chapter 14: The Netherworld_

_1882_

She could not possibly say what awoke her for there was no sound, everything was quite still. Perhaps memories of the strange affair had been persistent enough to wake her, perhaps her body had sensed the foreign environment even when her mind had momentarily gone blank. Remembrance stirred and brought with it a kind of panic that had her scrambling upright while her eyes shot open trying to take in the scene around her. She had been placed upon a burgundy love-seat, a pillow positioned behind her back to keep her comfortable.

Her surroundings, however, were particularly peculiar. Lush, exotic trees were scaling evermore upwards towards a glass dome, coated in a fine film of moisture sprayed onto them by faucets mounted onto the walls. She could hear the susurration as the water was pressed forward with great pressure. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and although perspiration was coating her skin she couldn't help but feel that she had somehow woken up in paradise. She tipped her head into her neck and watched the beads of water running down the glass walls until another movement caught her attention.

He, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, had appeared at the top of a giant staircase. Despite the humid warmth he was still wrapped in the dark cloak, his hands holding on to the rail still covered by the black gloves. The only noteworthy difference being that he no longer wore the hat that had concealed most of his face.

"I am pleased to see you awake, my dear," he greeted her warmly as he descended the spiral staircase and his voice immediately seemed to blur some of the sharp edges of reality.

Still, she did not know what to say in return and only watched him come closer. He carried himself with powerful purpose, every step determined and almost majestic. Yet when he reached her, he sank down upon his knees with an unexpected air of humility, offering both of his hands should she require the comfort.

"I fear I might have pushed you rather too far," he said remorsefully.

To her it was still as if he was speaking in a foreign tongue. Vowels and consonants brushed against her ear but it was the tone that enveloped the words that truly affected her. It moved her so much, in fact, that she cursed the silences that stole his voice away.

"Of course you were meant to have more time to prepare for the role of Marguerite. But I made a mistake in underestimating her…"

She did not understand what he was saying and focused instead on the unmoving mouth of his brilliant golden mask. It was radiant like the sun here in midst of the green splendour, every part well-crafted and handsome, sculpted cheekbones, arched eyebrows, a perfect but cold illusion. And she found herself reaching for it, craving to remove it in order to unearth the humanity that surely had to exist underneath it, that belonged to the warm, amber eyes staring back at her. He caught her hand before her fingertips could even graze the gilded metal and guided it gently but firmly towards a glass on the little corner table by her side instead. It was a silver flute filled with a liquid that shone faintly in a honey-coloured hue.

"Drink," he instructed softly, "it will help your body cope with the shock."

She found re-assurance in his eyes and lifted the glass to her lips. The liquid was cool and thick and ran down her throat like a treat, leaving a slight tartness behind on her tongue.

"Ginger," he answered her unspoken question, "I grow it here myself."

Her silence seemed to trouble him, chipping away at the cool bravado he had displayed upon entering the room. It intrigued her as much as it pressured her to put him at ease.

"Thank you," she spoke at last, offering a timid smile as well. "This is very beautiful."

She could not be certain, of course, but something told her that he was smiling also.

"Perhaps you would like to see more of it? You must see my flowers. No, I insist, I know you will like them."

His boyish enthusiasm was so endearing that she chuckled and nodded.

"Certainly, I'd be delighted to see more."

It was so easy to follow his suggestions, to leave her thoughts behind and listen to him. It lifted the heaviness in her chest and made her feel more comfortable than she had done in years. Somehow he pulled her to her feet without actually touching her, guided her through the winding pathways of his heavenly garden.

"Oh, what beautiful flowers!" she exclaimed when they had turned another corner and she had noticed the large meadow spread out before them, various flower heads peeking boldly from between blades of grass.

"As promised," he bowed elegantly and then bent down to clip some of them.

She was amazed to see that even this gesture was filled with a kind of tenderness as he brushed each of the stems apologetically before sweeping them together in one bouquet. He appeared to conjure the pale blue ribbon out of nowhere and wrapped it swiftly around the stems to hold them together before presenting them to her. Christine smiled in delight and studied the daffodils in her hands. It was a peculiar bouquet, truly, but somehow she felt it was appropriate. Anything ordinary would have felt jarring. No, this was a pretty but strange little dream and she had no desire to wake up just yet.

"Thank you," she replied, "you are most kind."

He had been so considerate, in fact, that she had almost forgotten about the violent temper he had demonstrated in the past. It was as if her mind refused to make any such considerations, as if it knew that if she did it would very likely be split in half. Because somewhere she knew that this was nothing more than an illusion, that the one she had known to be the Opera Ghost, the one she had somehow accepted as her Angel of Music, was in fact nothing more than an ordinary man who was deceiving her most cruelly. It was far easier to dwell in the present, a present that involved a green paradise and a kind stranger. She could not bear to think of the anguish she would encounter if she dared to view matters as they truly were. Reality had been too terrible to her lately to give in to its merciless pull. Better to float on the dreams he created for her, much like the solace she had taken in her father's stories when they'd had no roof over their heads and the Swedish cold had bitten away at her bones. Still, it took her a while to slip out of her reverie and when she did, she found him watching her with undisguised, curious regard.

"Forgive me," she whispered, embarrassment making her cheeks flush, "my mind wandered."

"That's quite alright, my dear," he granted warmly, "there's a lot to process."

"Yes," she nodded firmly, "this place is so beautiful, so very different. I can barely make sense of it all."

"Don't," he chuckled and the sound drew her closer, "sense is much too cold and calculating. Useful at times, of course, but otherwise utterly destructive. I believe we possess an inherent instinct for beauty and that which moves us. Unfortunately, it is far too often overridden by our desire to understand. You mustn't apologise then for being swept away momentarily, Christine, it pleases me greatly to see you so affected."

He had a most peculiar, most intoxicating way of talking that made her feel weak in her knees. So to distract herself from such foolishness, she steered her attention back to the garden. A little congregation of flowers a bit further away roused her curiosity and she walked towards it to inspect them more closely.

"You mustn't touch these, Christine," he voiced softly, following her. "I dare say their beauty is deceptive."

"How so?" she frowned.

Had she not been carrying the bouquet of daffodils she would have reached out to touch the peculiar petals. Some of the flowers had small heads in the most brilliant blue colour she had ever seen, others were deep red and orange with petals like vines, snaking upwards and away from the earth.

"They are poisonous," he explained pleasantly and she instantly took a step back. "Some merely cause indigestion and diarrhoea or provoke a skin reaction, others are known to cause paralysis and blindness but when consumed in large dosages they all lead to death."

He talked about it with such simplicity that she wondered for a moment if he truly realised the gruesomeness of the effects he was describing. She perceived nothing more than cool curiosity and somehow that realisation sent a chill down her spine.

"How do you feel?" he inquired as if he had realised the direction her thoughts had taken.

"Somewhat tired still, fatigued," she answered earnestly, "my head feels foggy but at the same time…I feel strangely alive."

Laughter burst forth and she hurriedly covered her mouth to suppress the sound. She could not understand what had come over her, where this sudden joy had emanated from when a moment ago she had still felt disconcerted.

"Would you like to return, my dear?" he questioned and, once again, she felt as if he was capable of reading her as plainly as if her thoughts were written all over her.

Her face fell as something like fear welled up in her.

"No, I do not," she sighed heavily.

She thought of sweet Raoul whom she had shunned in her panic, of curious Meg who knew too much and who might be driven to a foolish, reckless act if she did not return. And yet… What else was there waiting to greet her? What else could there possibly be other than judgement and mockery. She had bravely stepped in when La Carlotta had been indisposed, yes, but that act alone would be enough for some chorus girls to loathe her. What was worse, she had enjoyed nothing more than a mellow success and there was no doubt on her mind that the ensemble and the managers knew. It would be enough to stifle their gratitude towards her and enough to encourage mockery for having dared to try. The girls would not believe that she hadn't had much of a say in the matter.

And what about _him_? He had been kind, certainly, had almost welcomed her with open arms and yet he had not once alluded to the performance. There was no doubt on her mind that she had disappointed him also.

"No, I never wish to return," she reiterated firmly with a kind of bitterness that was quite beyond her years. "I have failed the Opera, I have failed you."

Strangely, she could only find remorse in his eyes.

"You should have triumphed!" he whispered darkly and the low undercurrents of his tone made her sense his anger.

A moment later he seemed to notice her frightened expression for he reached out his hand as if to touch her but then withdrew it again at the last minute.

"Oh, please don't be frightened, Christine," he continued, turning away from her so that she could not even read the emotion in his eyes, "my wrath is directed elsewhere entirely. You did all that you could."

She had never known a handful of words so powerful to destroy her. Or perhaps it was the power of the words that weren't spoken.

_It wasn't enough._

She had never known him to compliment her and yet in this one weak moment she yearned that he would. She needed to hear something positive if she ever hoped to sing again. The tears stole over her cheeks silently and even when her lips parted to repel the grief inside her, the emotion came soundlessly. Perhaps that explained the utter look of shock that registered on his face when he turned back to her once more. Mask or not, she could tell that her tears had caught him off-guard. She tried to contain them, tried to tilt up her chin in an act of defiance but the well wasn't empty yet.

"Please, child," he spoke, the rawness of his tone one with the rawness of emotion she was experiencing, "please, dry your tears. I cannot bear to see you like this."

His body appeared to shrink before her, swayed slightly back with uncertainty even when he had taken a step towards her. She opened her mouth to apologise for she could clearly see that she was making him uncomfortable, but the only sound that escaped was a hiccupped sob.

He fumbled nervously with the pocket of his waistcoat and had she not been so upset herself, she would have found the clumsiness endearing. At last, he presented her with a handkerchief in a gesture that appeared born out of knowledge rather than understanding. As if he had learned that situations like these required comfort and kindness in the form of a tissue.

Shifting the bouquet into the crook of her left arm, she accepted it silently, wished not to cause him offence, and studied it briefly before lifting it up to her face to dab away the tears. It was a plain white square, embroidered with the letter "E" but made from simple material that stood in stark contrast to the rich fabric of his other garments.

"A gentleman ought to always carry one," he supplied monotonously as if reciting a memorised line, "even if he should have no use for it."

She smiled gratefully through her tears and wiped her eyes and blew her nose until she was in a presentable state again.

"What does "E" stand for?" she then inquired, hoping to further dispel the tension between them.

Instead, he seemed to shrink further, drawing his shoulders up in an almost childish display of nonchalance.

"Erik," he replied reluctantly and that name shifted everything between them.

There he was before her, nothing more than a man and she should have chided him for it, should have used the opportunity to confront him about his deception and yet something was holding her back, something in the helplessness of his eyes persuaded her to keep her lips locked. She settled for smiling yet again, a small upwards quirk of the lips she hoped would re-assure him.

"I wished I could have been better," she confessed, picking up the original thread again, "I truly wanted to make you proud."

"You will grow," he decided firmly, "we will continue your lessons in the morning. Now it is late and you must rest."

Every word he spoke was clipped, dismissive even, as if he had quite made up his mind and did not think it worthwhile to consult her. He turned so quickly that his cloak billowed dramatically around him and when he strode off he had claimed back his powerful air entirely.

A small rebellious spark ignited in her, tempted her to remain where she was until he addressed her more kindly but in the end exhaustion forced her to follow him. She had no idea how late it truly was for the lamps mounted on the ceiling exuded such warm, yellow light that she had bought into the illusion of daytime. Still, she wondered what strange mood had overcome him, what had caused the polite gentleman to turn into this cold, detached creature.

Beyond the glass door lay the floating foundation of this peculiar house which they quickly crossed to arrive at the cottage. Feebly, she peered into the dark around them but it was impossible to see the dock they had emerged on a few hours ago before she had fainted. It was impossible to locate any way out. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she clutched the bouquet firmly with both hands and followed Erik up the ramp that led into the cottage.

As if by magic, the interior of the house seemed far bigger than it had appeared from the outside. They had stepped into a cosy sitting room which felt warm and inviting thanks to the dark wood-panelling of the walls and the corresponding carpet. A small pavilion branched off into the west wing, built from the same material as the greenhouse it overlooked. Instead of plants, however, there was only an off-white grand piano. Comfortable looking sofas and armchairs of burgundy upholstery were dotted around the room near the fire place that remained unlit thus far. There were books everywhere, crammed into shelves or littering the carpet. A globe, a selection of glasses, jars and tubes on the mantelpiece and beautiful, foreign-looking objects on tables and cupboards.

There was almost too much for her eyes to take in and after a moment she realised that she had stopped walking, had remained stranded in the middle of his sitting room. Instantly, she felt his stern gaze on her and followed him up the spiral staircases of brass which he had already ascended. He led her along the balcony that overlooked his sitting room, past one door and on to the next.

"This will be your room!" he announced and with a dutiful nod she followed him inside.

The contrast could not have been greater. The room was kept entirely in white and cream with an elegant stucco ceiling and a forest-coloured art nouveau lamp that instantly caught the eye. Next to the large four-posted bed was a mahogany chest of drawers upon which another flute-shaped glass and a pitcher of water had already been positioned.

"I trust you will be comfortable enough to rest here," he remarked, standing in the doorway and watching her as she ventured deeper into the room, running her hand across a finely crafted writing desk and a soft, green pouffe. The emotion in his eyes was inscrutable.

"How could I not?" she replied, turning to smile at him. "This is beautiful."

Placated by her answer, he indicated an elegant bow and then stepped outside.

"You will find any garments, any utensils you might need in here. I expect you refreshed and focused for our lesson in the morning."

She nodded happily but once the door had closed behind him, she shakily sank down on the chaise lounge closest to her. Without his presence she could see her new reality in a much harsher light and what she saw frightened her deeply. Somehow, she had ventured into the home of a man who dwelled underground, who had bought nightgowns and brushes and other items for her - if his words were anything to go by - and now she would have to somehow find sleep under his roof without knowing of his intentions.

But what was most frightening of all, she thought as she gazed down upon the rich yellow petals of her daffodil bouquet, was that when he was near, when he charmed her with his voice, she did not even seem to mind.


	16. The Eccentric Stranger, 1853

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos!

_Chapter 15: Istanbul_

_1853_

 

Brilliant, golden sunshine was flooding into the room from one of the many large windows, basking the bed in its light in which the sultan and his wife were lying in each other's arms. It was an ordinary Friday for Abdülmecid I that would turn very unusual very quickly. But for now everything was as it had always been and he enjoyed the warm body of his wife immensely. She had wrapped herself around him, pressed her face into his chest, leaving him to feel as if he was cradling the world's most precious jewel. It was terribly easy to ignore his mind that kept reminding him that he ought to have left his chambers a long time ago.

When the Crimean War had broken out a few months ago, his viziers had advised him against holding audiences with the public since the risk to his life would be too great. But he had decided to carry on as before since he feared it would send a wrong message to his people otherwise. He had initiated these appointments to get a sense of the public's needs and to let them feel a sense of closeness with their sultan. It would be wrong, then, to deprive them of that in a time of such uncertainty.

Nonetheless, it was understandable that he was feeling rather nervous on this radiant Friday morning when the curves of his wife beckoned him to abandon all duties. It was no secret that the Turkish Army wasn't an accomplished one, defeats in Egypt had seen to this blemished image. But Abdülmecid was hopeful that the outcome would be better this time. After all, they had secured support from Britain and France and once the war was won it was likely that their support would continue. He hoped that their influence would help revolutionise Turkey and bring innovation and novelties into a country that had been held back too long by traditionalism and religious conflicts. But he was also a realist who knew that his views weren't met with benevolence by everyone which was why it was even more vital he made it to his meeting.

As if sensing his intentions Şayeste stirred in his arms and looked up at him with her dark brown eyes.

"Stay," she whispered pleadingly, "can't the people wait? Surely Mustafa Reşid Pasha could collect their queries and pass them on to you. Why don't we go for a stroll in the garden instead?"

As if to emphasise her point, she turned away from him and rolled onto her back to embrace the warm sunshine.

"They're expecting to see me," he answered gently, pushing himself out of the bed, "I cannot possibly disappoint them. Not if I wish to reconcile this country."

Without looking at her again – for looking at her would have weakened his resolve – he disappeared to wash and dress but upon his return still found the reluctance edged onto her beautiful face.

"I will be back as soon as I can," he promised, gathering her hands in his own.

With a weak smile she freed them again, adjusted his sword and his fez and then finally nodded.

"I'll be waiting for you."

Her support in spite of her fears made him care for her even more tenderly and he paused for a moment to draw her close for a kiss.

The marble corridors of the palace echoed his steps as he strode towards the audience hall. He tried ridding his mind of all matters concerning his familial life and attempted to prepare himself for the questions of the public instead. He anticipated the usual: requests for reports from the warfront, a plea for personal support and criticism from the orthodox Muslims for his support and integration of the non-Muslim community. And for the most part of the morning his expectations were being met.

It was in the early afternoon, he had just been served his refreshments, when the doors opened and a most eccentric man strolled inside. He was staggeringly tall and lean and, upon closer inspection, not much younger than the sultan himself. His dark hair was so long that it would have hung loosely over his shoulders had it not been firmly tied back and partially plaited. Feathers, wires and other slim pieces of metal were interwoven into the dark strands, making him look like a rogue or an outlaw but a stunning, eye-catching one at that. This initial reaction was so extraordinary that the small golden mask that adorned his face became almost secondary. Any other man he would have assumed to be deviant, why else would one wish to hide one's face, after all? But with this man the mask seemed nothing more than another eccentric accessory. It matched the colours of his long flowing garments almost precisely, rich and golden as they were, the colour of the Gods.

It was customary in Turkey to cover oneself when entering a place of worship or of power, such as the palace, but the stranger seemed intent on provocation for he had chosen not to wear a cebken to cover the skin that his sleeveless yelek exposed. Abdülmecid let his eyes wander over his pale, skeletal arm covered only partly by a leather bracer. But it was the other arm, made from some kind of hard, red metal that truly drew his attention. He had an inkling then that this day was about to take a rather strange turn.

"I thank you for taking the time to come here," he greeted the stranger as he had greeted all the others before him, "now how can I help you?"

Where others had fallen to their knees before him to extent the customary pleasantries, the young man remained rigidly upright, appraising him coolly with his strange, yellow eyes that were gleaming from behind the mask.

"It is I who can help you," he spoke at last, addressing him in French.

A less patient sultan would have had him whipped for his insolence but Abdülmecid followed his instincts and laughed instead. Somehow he felt that he was being tested. On his truthfulness, perhaps, or on the rumours that circulated around his more than civilised upbringing.

"A rather bold announcement!" he remarked, slipping effortlessly into the stranger's mother tongue if also he failed to produce the words with quite the melodic lilt as him.

Nonetheless, his grasp of the language seemed to please the man greatly and when he spoke again it was in fluent Turkish.

"I disagree, it is entirely realistic; otherwise I would not be wasting your time."

"Let me hear your proposal then," Abdülmecid said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

It was important that he concealed his amusement from now on. He did not want the man to believe that he could be won over easily.

"I know this palace no longer pleases you. I know you yearn for construction on the Dolmabahçe Palace to proceed."

"That's common knowledge," he remarked dismissively.

Necessity and a desire for luxury had driven him to order the construction of this second palace at the Bosporus strait. But behind the plans had also been a desire to design an edifice, a symbol for progress that united traditional and contemporary styles. Construction had started ten years prior but ground to a halt time and time again when financial troubles and threats from abroad had tied his hands. And since they had entered into conflict with Russia the site had been all but abandoned.

"I will be the one who finishes it."

The announcement was so confident, so free of doubts that, despite his better judgement, Abdülmecid broke into laughter once again. Then something dangerous flashed in the eyes behind the golden mask and suffocated all sound. Suddenly he became all too aware of his own heartbeat, of the sweat that was starting to pool in the palms of his hands and wondered for the first time, if the various items and the lasso fastened to the stranger's belt were merely tools or served as something much more ominous.

"You want to see proof, of course," the young man spoke again and his voice seemed to brush away all fear the sultan had been experiencing, "you are an intelligent man. It is only natural you would not simply accept the word of a stranger."

Slowly, Abdülmecid felt himself nodding, as if his chin was being tugged down to his chest by invisible strings.

"My father was a renowned architect in France," the stranger proceeded, "and I devoured his manuscripts and drawings as a boy. What's more, I am a well-travelled man, you see. I have studied under the finest metal-builders in Europe, have learned the basics of masonry from the very ancestors of architecture themselves and I've surpassed them all!"

During this speech, the young man had begun to pace back and forth, growing more and more impassioned with every word that he spoke. His conviction was so palpable, so ludicrously bold that the sultan couldn't help but grow curious.

"Say that I gave you a chance to prove yourself," he began slowly, staring at the polished floor that reflected the stranger's image, "how do you propose I pay you? I am certain you are aware that I lack financial means to support construction. The war has robbed me of any such luxuries."

"I do not require money," he answered, his voice silky and low now, full of satisfaction Abdülmecid did not understand, "I do not require your assistance. My reputation proceeds me, you see, and I already know where to find the finest material in Istanbul and beyond. I will provide for myself, the opportunity to build will be reward enough."

"You can't expect me to believe that," the sultan chuckled and for the first time there was an edge to his voice.

He thought he was being played a fool by the opposition, thought that some plan was underfoot to expose him as nothing but a naïve, young man unfit to rule the country. If the stranger noticed the change of mood he did not show it.

"I don't see why not," he replied calmly, "the completion of the palace will make me a well-known man and such reputation will grant me more power."

Abdülmecid had never heard a word pronounced with such greed and the danger he perceived once more caused him to think over his answer carefully. It was all well and good to accept the stranger's ridiculous offer yet should he come to conduct himself indecently, he, the sultan, would still come to feel the repercussions himself.

"You would sign a contract? You would pledge not to hurt a soul while in my employ?"

The laughter that followed was as rich as it was terrible.

"A wise man, indeed…" the stranger muttered to himself, "though let me assure you that should I wish to harm someone no contract would stop me from doing so."

"But it would give me just cause to expel you from the site and the country, to shame your name."

He seemed to have sunken into the very darkness with him because never before had he felt such satisfaction at angering a man.

"Very good, sultan, very good," the young man hummed, "now you must attend to your own affairs and draw up the contract if you insist." He waved his ordinary arm elegantly through the air while striding towards the doors. "And I will meet you at the palace come sunset."

He disappeared swiftly, leaving a shaken Abdülmecid behind who suddenly wondered how on earth the promised meeting would be possible. The building site was protected by guards at one side and cut off by a body of water from the other. There was no way in!

When he arrived several hours later he appeared to have been right. The magnificent white gate with its columns and frescoes was closed as were the bright blue-coloured doors on either side. The guards were where he had positioned them, saluting him dutifully and swearing upon their lives that they had seen no-one enter. Curiosity compelled him to continue nonetheless and so he signalled his private guards to follow him through the garden and towards the half-finished building.

Everything lay quiet and still, only a light, warm breeze drew through the air. He looked around for some time and was just about to give the signal for their departure when a movement caught his attention and made his heart stop. There, at the highest level of the thus far constructed palace a figure was moving clad entirely in white and gold against the stunning backdrop of the darkening night sky. It moved with cat-like confidence and grace swinging lower and lower until it landed on the ground before him.

"I corrected a structural weakness of your project," the stranger remarked, "and lost track of time though I am certain you have not been waiting for long."

Abdülmecid could not think of a reply, was tongue-tied and dumbstruck by the display he had just witnessed. How an ordinary man could climb like that was quite beyond him. But it was not surprising then that he had stolen past the guards. No wall would prove an obstacle to him.

"If you will follow me to the side of the palace I will show you what else I have been working on."

The stranger spoke calmer than he had done in the morning, appeared more composed altogether and swung the cloth bag that presumably contained his tools over his shoulder in a manner that highlighted his startling young age. He was not much older than twenty, Abdülmecid had learned, for he hadn't spent the afternoon idly but contracted his trusted viziers to gather as much information about him as they could. The pickings had been scarce. Born somewhere in France he had been spotted trading across some of the largest markets in Europe. Some claimed to have witnessed him perform though when pressed to describe these performances in detail words had failed them all. Only one woman insisted that she had seen him produce the greatest feats of magic. Others argued that he had made a name for himself in Greece and Italy as an architect and mason, learning under the guidance of some of the greatest craftsmen.

In any case, the accounts had been so fantastical at times that Abdülmecid had dismissed them but now that the stranger showed him around the palace, showed him how much progress he had made in one afternoon, he was inclined to believe them all. Of course, that did not mean that it was wise to let him see.

"You have crafted this by yourself?" he questioned once the man had taken a step back to allow him to inspect the shell of the annex he had erected.

"You must not be put off," the stranger insisted, rounding the structure and caressing every inch of it with the fingertips of his ordinary hand, "it is quite ugly at first but it will grow."

Abdülmecid nodded absent-mindedly and then made a show of approaching his guards, ordering one of them to fetch a guard from the entrance. They had been tasked with patrolling the area once every morning and would be able to vouch for the man's honesty. Truthfully, he did not need to see the guard's surprised look as he spotted the structure that seemed to have miraculously appeared out of nowhere. He had known that the stranger had been telling the truth.

"I request you join me at Topkapı. I will have the West quarters prepared for you while you show me the sketches for the rest of the palace you have undoubtedly made."

The stranger did not utter a sound and only nodded, shouldering his bag anew. And yet the sultan was left wondering whether he would soon come to regret his decision.


	17. Oddities, 1882

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos!

_Chapter 16: The Netherworld_

_1882_

Christine's night had been a difficult one and so she awoke a lot less refreshed than she would have liked. It wasn't that the bed hadn't been comfortable. The pillows were nice and fluffy, the sheets soft on her skin and the usual draught she experienced in the dormitories non-existent. But it was this very consideration of a man she knew nothing about that frightened her. The fatigue of her body then had not been enough to coax her restless mind to sleep. Instead she had been listening out for the slightest noises. The footsteps that indicated his presence, the click of a lock nearby, a peculiar scratching sound at her door.

She truly could not say when she had fallen asleep in the end and now she was paying the price. A headache was creeping from the crown of her head to her forehead, making her wish she could retreat underneath the comfortable sheets once more and ignore any of his attempts to collect her. But she was too old for such behaviour and a glance at the clock on the nearby table told her that the hour was far too advanced already for her to waste more time. So she pushed the blankets away and crawled out of bed. She moved to sit in front of the dresser and began brushing out her hair with the ornate comb he had bought for her. The bristles slid effortlessly through her curls until the dark strands looked glossy and smooth. But a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror told her that the rest of her appearance wasn't quite so favourable. Her face was pale, clearly showing the signs the stress of the past week had left behind, her eyes bloodshot and underlined by dark rings. If only there was some powder around she could use but pulling open the various drawers revealed nothing.

Reluctantly, she approached the wardrobe to help herself to one of the dresses he had acquired. Last night when fear had taken over, she had decided to refuse –taking a nightgown had already been more than enough- but since then she had reluctantly come to accept that it would be easier if she just complied. Had she been wearing one of her own dresses the previous day she would have insisted to wear it again. But it was a costume that the Opera's atelier had worked on very hard and she refused to let it become wrinkled and out of shape because of her stubbornness.

She selected a simple white dress now and with it in hand carefully approached the door. She tried the handle to see if he had locked her in, then breathed a sigh of relief when it opened effortlessly and she could step out onto the balcony. He was already awake and sitting on one of the leather sofas, hunched over something lying on the coffee table. For a moment she found herself marvelling at the line of his spine, the slicked back layers of black hair on the back of his head. The pull he possessed was instantly palpable.

"Good morning, Erik!" she greeted him cheerfully.

She was making an effort to downplay her fears as well as trying to establish a sense of normalcy between them. But instead she only succeeded in startling him terribly. Perhaps calling him by his first name had been inappropriate. But what else should she have done? He had been so cryptic about establishing a title before.

Whatever he had been working on was flung onto the ground as he whirled around to gaze up at her. His panicked eyes made her all too aware of her own nightgown-clad form and she hurriedly pulled her dress closer against her body.

"I was hoping to wash before our lesson, but you failed to show me the bathroom yesterday. I really did not mean to startle you."

He rose to his feet elegantly and smoothed down his clothes, ignoring the mess on the floor around him. It was as if the change of posture gave him more power but it could not erase entirely the quieter, more private side she had witnessed moments ago.

"No need to apologise," he spoke while she hesitantly descended down the spiral staircase, "the fault was mine entirely. Forgive me for inconveniencing you."

He sounded annoyed with himself and at the same time uncomfortable, as if he did not quite know what to do now that the situation had taken an unanticipated turn.

"It's nothing, really," she assured him, "you will show me and all will be well."

He nodded to himself, perhaps needed such encouragement and then guided her through a small passage towards the bathroom. She was determined to follow him closely so that they could move past this awkwardness but at the same time could hardly contain her curiosity when they passed another room whose door stood ajar. It was illuminated brightly by lamps that shone focus on a workbench. Peculiar pistol-shaped tools as well as a range of other small items were visibly on display. Was this where he had crafted the scorpion music box? Then a movement caught her attention. Something small that scurried across the floor. Had it been a rat she wondered, trembling. But she didn't have more time to dwell on it for they had moved past the room in an instant and Erik was holding open the door to his bathroom.

Despite her fear it amazed her. Except for the ceiling it was entirely made out of green marble, mosaics depicting various mythical battles somehow fitted in to it.

"I shall be waiting for you in the sitting room," he announced and all but fled from her side.

What a strange man he was!

Abandoning her shoes by the door, she stepped inside, hanging up her gown on a designated hook. It was easy enough to locate towels and a range of wonderfully scented soaps, but the bath itself proved rather a mystery to her. The usual tub was nowhere to be found and instead Christine positioned herself on one of the marbled seats that appeared to have been crafted for that very purpose. Nervously, she glanced up at the serpentine line of bronze pipes that ran up the wall and disappeared into the ceiling, then at the cord dangling down to her right. Eventually she was cold enough to take the risk to pull at it and to her surprise as if out of nowhere warm water came pouring down from above.

She washed as quickly as she could, then dried herself and shrugged into the white dress before towelling her hair to dispel some of the moisture. She still felt odd, however, when she emerged and hurried to drop her nightgown off in her room. Erik, in the meantime, appeared to have moved the papers he had been working on from the floor and laid out breakfast for her instead. There was a mug filled with steaming hot tea and a selection of bread and pastries to satisfy her needs. The food was oddly reminiscent of the one offered to them from the conservatoire.

Following the unspoken invitation, she sank down on the sofa, pushing her moist hair over one of her shoulders. While she ate, the Opera Ghost remained rigidly upright, pacing back and forth in front of the fire place with one arm behind his back. Gone was the composed, majestic man that had presented himself to her the previous day.

"Have you eaten yet?" she asked, if only to fill the room with something other than silence and the muffled sound of his shoes against carpet.

"You will find, my dear, that I've never had much of an appetite. Food is but a trifle, a necessity if you will, to keep my body nourished and functioning."

His peculiar manner of talking was making her head swim. Surely a simple yes or no would have sufficed.

Once more the uncomfortable silence enveloped them and with every passing minute her ordinary life became more appealing. Granted, the prospect of facing up to the snickers and the gossip was disheartening but at least she'd be in the company of dear friends. Erik, she did not know how to categorise yet. He was neither a friend nor a stranger. But the more time she spent in his company the more apparent it became that he did not seem to know quite how to relate to another. It was almost as if he had had a plan for the first act but now that the second act had commenced he was completely at a loss.

It had been some time after she had finished her meal that he finally turned towards her again and acknowledged her existence.

"Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the piano now," he suggested, lifting his hand in one sweeping movement.

Relieved to be doing something, she rose to her feet and crossed the small distance to the instrument. Erik had already taken a seat on the bench, brushing his black tailcoat over the edge and holding his fingers just above the keys. He seemed to have discarded his black gloves for her eyes were instantly drawn to the pair of mismatched hands. One pale and white with skeletal fingers that hovered like spider legs above its prey, the other not of flesh and bone but red metal with golden fingers that caught the light of the lamps. She could not say which one she deemed odder.

"Scales!" he commanded suddenly.

He must have noticed her lingering gaze, she thought, and her cheeks coloured in embarrassment. It wasn't polite to stare; she, certainly, had not liked it in the streets of Paris upon her arrival.

Dropping her eyes she nodded her consent and began following the notes he played up and down until he instructed her to do another exercise. The warm-up was as rigorous and as exhausting as it had always been, but it helped shift their relationship back into place. This was a familiar realm in which both of them knew their place precisely. But more than that, the music helped bring them closer. It conveyed all the emotions that coursed between them which words could not.

Once he was sufficiently pleased with the warm-up, he had her practise the role of Marguerite again. Christine was doubtful that she'd ever be performing it a second time but did not dare mention this to him. Instead she dutifully followed his instructions and sang whichever piece he presented her with. He was as strict and critical as he had always been, stopping abruptly when she had failed to sing a single note as he had wanted her to. His briskness still bruised her, but at the same time she soon noticed the change in her voice. Her breathing had improved a great deal since he had offered to teach her and even now in this one lesson it continued to improve. She felt much more capable to contain the notes, to hold the melodies with the strength they deserved. If only she would have been able to perform quite so well when the role of Marguerite had been thrust upon her. But maybe there were things that even Erik could not teach her.

The end of the lesson came all too soon and although she knew that Erik was right in stopping her before she strained her voice, she could not hide her disappointment.

"Perhaps…perhaps you would consider singing something for me?" she ventured carefully.

The warm blanket of music was still wrapped around her and she was more than a little reluctant to exchange it for the uncomfortable atmosphere. His hands were now calmly resting in his lap but his peculiar eyes betrayed his trepidation. Though what he might be hesitant about she could not understand.

"Oh please," she begged, "it truly would give me the greatest of pleasure."

It was almost as if she could watch the wheels turn in his head as he silently debated her request. Then at last, when she had already convinced herself that he would decline, he nodded. For another moment he remained rigidly on the little bench, staring into space while he seemed to decide which piece to sing for her. Then, his hands unfurled and caressed the ivory keys once more, creating a sound that was barely audible. At first she thought his nervousness responsible, that somehow his fingers had failed him, but when his voice began to fill the room she realised that the piece he had chosen did not require much accompaniment. His voice was quite capable of carrying it, relying only on the occasional notes of the piano to underline a particularly poignant phrase.

_Thy hand, Belinda,_

_darkness shades me,_

_On thy bosom let me rest,_

_More I would, but Death invades me;_

_Death is now a welcome guest._

_When I am laid, am laid in earth,_

_May my wrongs create_

_No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;_

_Remember me, remember me,_

_but ah! forget my fate._

Not once had she encountered a tune quite as mournful as this. It seemed to stem from the very heart of the man before her, as if he himself was made out of death from head to toe, only waiting to shed his earthly shell and depart into a better world. The deep melancholy she found in his voice resonated with her own and she wondered what kind of grief a man must have encountered to embody sadness so palpably.

Compassion drew her closer, made her find a space by his side on the bench. His head tilted in her direction in mild surprise but thankfully he seemed to find her presence soothing for he continued to sing without interruption. Truthfully, his presence had a similar effect on her. The shortness of the bench forced such close proximity on them that Christine could feel his thigh against hers, and the hard metal of his left arm against her right. Still the sad tune continued until, at last, its final note melted into the air between them.

She yearned to offer him words of comfort or even of thanks for she was truly grateful that he had shared his gift with her but found herself too affected by the music to produce even a single sound. He, too, appeared to require a moment to compose himself before he tilted his head ever so slightly to look at her. She could feel his eyes studying her profile, roaming down her cheeks to her chin, dipping over her shoulder and lingering on the curls of her still damp hair. They had such intensity that she felt herself burning, coming alight from within. She couldn't have put words to what he was igniting within her but tried to contain it until he at last looked ahead and at the piano again.

"Quite unique indeed," he murmured softly to himself and within an instance remembrance stirred.

"It was you then, truly," she pushed suddenly, "you spoke to me in my dreams."

"Even I do not possess the power to enter dreams, my dear," he chuckled.

A stubborn frown appeared on her face as she scooted to the edge of the bench to push her small hand between their legs to confront him head on.

"But you were there. I heard your voice. You were there in the auditorium! I remember seeing your eyes."

With every word her tone was growing more heated as the anger slowly unchained itself. Surely, the least he could do was own up to his actions.

"I spoke to you because you'd taken me by surprise. I thought you strange…strangely whole. Perfect…almost."

His words briefly soothed her anger, tingled across her skin.

"Is this why you set out to torment me initially? Because I was whole?" Her gaze fell onto his mechanical arm which he rapidly retracted. "Meg told me you'd helped her and her mother. Most of the other girls from the conservatoire are handicapped also and you did not frighten them!"

"The young Giry ought to learn to hold her tongue," he bristled moodily but she continued.

"You must have seen something new in me because you suddenly-"

"I believe our lesson has come to an end," he interrupted, attempting to rise to his feet rigidly, but she reached for him and pulled him back down on the bench.

Her gaze swept over the house, a house beneath the ground in the middle of a lake, just as peculiar as the man before her.

"You care for them because they are different. You understand what it means to be different because you perceive yourself to be an oddity."

With great courage she pushed her palm of flesh and bone against his of unfeeling metal.

"And subsequently you thought I wouldn't have the capacity to understand."

The eyes behind the golden mask were wide and frightened and compelled her even more to convince him. The loneliness she sensed behind that cold exterior, the other-ness was something she could relate to so well that she yearned to hold him and convince him that she cared.

"But I can assure you I understand."

She stared determinedly back into the amber eyes. He was completely frozen still, too paralysed to fly into a rage, too hopeful to utter a word. And so Christine took action. If they were to move forward, it would have to be without the blanket of illusion, from one person to the next. She firmly believed to be doing the right thing when she reached up and stripped away his mask. She couldn't have known how terrible a sight she would encounter.

His face distorted into a grimace and it was his mouth that expelled the scream that remained lodged in her throat.


	18. The Daroga and The Architect, 1855

_Chapter 17: Istanbul_

_1855_

Nadir Khan had always known that he made a perfect accessory. As chief of police at the Persian court he was practically designed to obey the Shah's every wish and when his dear wife Rookheeya had passed away, he had become even more expendable. It was true that he had a son to care for but with a fair amount of money and land to his name and servants at his disposal that hardly stopped the Shah from using him to have his wishes fulfilled. Nadir knew better than to raise a single objection even though his heart was heavy with the loss he had to endure. So he tried reminding himself that the separation from Reza would only be temporary. If he could turn his frustration into motivation surely it wouldn't be long before they'd be reunited again in Ashraf.

Still, that was easier said than done and the task at hand wasn't precisely an easy one. He was to find the chief architect in the Sultan's employ and persuade him to abandon the project in order to build an even greater palace in Persia. More than that, Nadir had been asked to subtly discover what other talents this man had to offer since several rumours were circulating around him. Magician, musician, inventor. Only Allah would know what would happen if this genius fell into the greedy hands of the Shah, only Allah could protect him if he failed to meet the Shah's expectations.

Before his audience at Topkapı Palace, Nadir had given instructions to his men to wait while he wandered around the Granz Bazaar in Istanbul. Trustworthy sources had informed him that the man in question liked to frequent it as soon as it opened and Nadir rather fancied a glimpse of him so that he might get a better understanding of how to approach him later on.

As inconspicuously as possible he wandered through the aisles beneath the domed ceiling, pausing occasionally to smell certain spices or feel the quality of the fabric on display. The man, so rumour went, would be eccentrically looking. His hair wasn't neatly trimmed as was customary but long and wild, his garments flamboyant and his face covered by a mask that varied in colour and shape. He would be easy enough to spot then and yet Nadir feared to have foolishly believed a tale that had been embellished beyond recognition by a crowd that thirsted for a naïve audience. Of course, all wouldn't be lost should this strange architect slip through his fingers here and yet Nadir knew that it would serve as a bad omen for the rest of his endeavour.

But thankfully, luck or Allah's goodwill was with him on this occasion for not a moment later the peculiar man in question appeared. Where a moment ago Nadir had feared that the stories had been exaggerated, he now found himself thinking that they had all been rather flattering. He could not recall a single report in which the man's height or thinness had been mentioned. Still, it didn't take him long to notice what a powerful effect he had on the people that surrounded him.

He walked with long strides, never stopping to linger spontaneously but only when he had business with a particular vendor. He spoke in smooth, soft Turkish and conducted himself politely if also somewhat coolly. Those who had braved the bazaar as early as he had either stopped to stare at him in amazement or uttered unkind words that he appeared not to notice until on one occasion he rounded a corner and Nadir caught a glimpse of the strange yellow eyes that shone with undisguised disgust which told him otherwise. The danger, the warning in them was so potent that Nadir stopped for a second, all breath wrenched from his body. This was a man who had killed, there was no doubt about it.

When the wave of dread had dissipated at last, he broke into a jog to catch up with the man again. It appeared he had acquired almost everything he had come for, for his bag looked heavier than before and even the little pouches on his belt seemed filled to the brim. He would only notice a while later, after they had formally made each other's acquaintance, that Erik also used these visits to fill his coin purses. His ordinary hand would dart into the pockets of his unsuspecting prey with such speed it looked as if it hadn't moved at all, yet it would always emerge with the string of a foreign purse wrapped around his fingers. He also soon learned that Erik particularly delighted in letting him see, as if he drew some satisfaction from his disapproval.

For the time being, however, he let the stranger walk away and returned to his men to refresh himself and prepare the gifts they had brought along for the Sultan and his architect. Selfishly, Nadir had hoped that the visit to the market with all its colours and smells would put him in a more cheerful mood but if anything it had only succeeded in making him more homesick. How nice it would have been to buy a doll or some other toy to bring home to Reza. How he would have relished in seeing his little face light up. Such notions were silly, he reminded himself, and would only serve to distract him and inevitably prolong his return home. The sooner they went to their audience the better.

As one of the many princes in Persia, Nadir Khan had a respectable income and, therefore, presented himself to the Sultan in his finest garments that only contained a hint of royal purple, his beard neatly trimmed and his arms laden with goods. The hall they were waved into was small but colourful, containing the usual tiles and archways that could also be found in Persia. It was a cool little place that instantly soothed some of the sun's unforgiving sting.

Abdülmecid was reclining on a divan underneath a wooden canopy, looking every bit the royal his title suggested. He was somewhat older than the Shah and Nadir thought that his wisdom and kindness was showing in his eyes. The suspicion he found there also he could not blame him for. Ambassadors from other countries could easily turn out to be a threat and, sadly, the Shah's reputation for cruelty preceded him.

Obediently, as he had been taught early on in his line of work, he fell to his knees once he had placed the presents securely on the floor.

"Your Highness," he greeted the Sultan formally, keeping his eyes downcast, "it is a great honour to be welcome in your presence."

He glanced up briefly while remaining on the ground and saw the man's lips curl into a smile. The reservation continued to linger in his eyes however.

"We have come from the court of Mazandaran to present you with some of the Shah's most prized goods. He expresses his gratitude also and hopes they will bring you much enjoyment."

The Sultan nodded to himself and then gestured for him to rise back to his feet. Nadir complied and instructed his men to carry the boxes closer and lay them out at the Sultan's feet. If he was anything like the Shah he would pick through them now and make a display of the ones that pleased him and the gifts that he deemed disappointing. Instead, however, he only tasked his servants with collecting the items and carrying them away.

"I have made up rooms for you and your men here," he went on to explain, "as I am certain your journey has been long and you would like to stay for a while and recover in more comfortable quarters."

Nadir very nearly raised an eyebrow in surprise but somehow managed hide his feelings. He hadn't expected such great hospitality but knew at the same time that it also came with a warning. The Sultan wasn't a fool, of course, and knew that there were other reasons for his visit. Even more motivation to grasp this architect quickly and convince him to come to Persia. Of course, he didn't let the Sultan see his contemplation.

"Thank you, your Highness. Your generosity is most flattering and if you permit us, we'd gladly accept your offer now and take a moment to withdraw and gather our strength. Then, if you'd be so inclined, we would love to discover more of your remarkable city."

He was following the custom to the letter and yet he could see humour as well as annoyance dancing in the kind brown eyes. Hurriedly he gathered his men before the Sultan's annoyance could cause him to change his mind.

"I trust I have proven myself an ally, rather than an enemy," Abdülmecid spoke suddenly, "and I hope that you feel you can simply ask for anything you desire. I have always ensured to have an open ear for the public's wishes and guests of mine won't be treated any differently."

Nadir nodded politely then allowed the servants to lead them to their respective chambers. He had understood what the Sultan had been trying to tell him and yet he could not bring himself to directly state the Shah's wishes. Too big was the risk that it would be seen as impertinent and they'd be forced to return empty handed or not at all. No, for Reza's sake he needed to wait to speak to the strange architect at least. He couldn't allow his impatience to risk the entire mission.

The room that was given to him was splendid and just as luxurious as the chambers in Mazandaran, but as tired as his body was from the journey, he felt far too restless to unwind. Time was barely moving forward and every silent moment made him wonder how his son was faring in his absence.

In the evening, he bravely endured a banquet with the Sultan and several other men of state, hoping that the architect would be present also to replenish himself after a hard day's work, but the eccentric fellow remained nowhere to be seen. Disheartened, Nadir rose to his feet when he considered having stayed for an appropriate amount of time and made to return to his chamber but changed his mind along the way. He would not find rest inside those four walls.

Instead he saw himself out via the audience hall and clambered down the steps into the little courtyard. The sun was glowing orange in the darkening sky, casting its light over the trees and flowers. Nadir strolled across the terrain, drawing air into his lungs and slowly releasing it again. It was easier out here to empty his mind, surrounded by the splendour of nature.

He lingered until the sun had all but disappeared, lowering himself to the ground to pray to Allah and begging Him to offer guidance and support. Then he found himself a quiet spot by one of the many fountains and watched the gentle stream of water.

"Subtlety is not your strong suit," a silky voice remarked. It was as if it was directly whispering into his ear. "I'd imagine that's rather a shame in your line of work, Daroga."

The tone he detected sent a chill down his spine and clumsily, he staggered to his feet hoping to confront its owner. Disconcertingly, however, there was no-one in his vicinity, only guards who patrolled the perimeter of the palace.

"I advise you to sit back down. I am certain you wish to keep the true reason for your visit a secret from the Sultan. How ludicrous to draw attention to yourself now!"

The man was speaking in accent-free Farsi, Nadir realised as he felt himself sinking to his knees once more.

"You clearly are desperate to meet me," the voice continued, "your tracking attempts at the Bazaar this morning suggested as much. I must confess, I thought you to be a threat at first. It wouldn't be the first attempt on my life since I began working at the palace two years ago."

Nadir stiffened as realisation dawned on him. Somehow in his desperation to locate the mysterious architect, he had prompted the man to seek him out instead. He knew he should have felt relieved, but all he could remember was the disgust and the danger he had seen in the amber eyes in the morning, and the memory made his blood run cold.

Unaware, or perhaps satisfied with the fear he had created, the architect continued with his strange soliloquy. "It is only natural, I suppose. Humans envy what they do not have which makes a man like me, one who possesses power and skill in equal measure, a prime target."

Nadir listened tensely, annoyed by the arrogance he discovered but grateful, too, for he was certain now that flattery would be a useful tool to win the man's favour.

"The public here in Istanbul is just as small-minded as anywhere else in the world. So I briefly considered you an assassin, sent by a religious leader to eradicate another non-conformist." He chuckled lowly to himself. "Imagine my surprise then when I discovered that the man who had been tracking me was nothing more than a simple pawn in the hands of a spoilt child. Yes, I have been following you, Daroga. Notice how I seamlessly blended in the background and drew no attention to myself? What does your Shah want?"

Nadir started to open his mouth but was cut off quickly.

"No, you fool, don't answer that," the voice hissed, "I can imagine myself. He wants to employ me. Perhaps he requires a new curiosity to entertain his harem or perhaps he simply wishes to have a palace that surpasses the Dolmabahçe."

Although temptation was great, Nadir firmly kept his lips locked this time.

"In exchange, I'd imagine he'll offer me jewels and coin. Perhaps even an elevated standing at court."

Nadir held his breath and hesitantly nodded, hoping that the subtle movement would not trigger the man's rage again.

"Well, the Shah of Persia cannot offer me anything I haven't achieved here already. You may stay here at court as a guest of the Sultan, of course, but let me make one thing perfectly clear. If you or your men decide to stalk me again or try to win my favour by any other devious or genuine means, I will be forced to take more drastic measures. Measures which are best left to your own imagination!"

The voice thundered in his ears one moment and was gone the next. The warning, however, continued to linger with the Persian for much longer.


	19. Stories Beyond the Mask, 1882

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! :)

_Chapter 18: The Netherworld_

_1882_

 

She was frozen in a nightmare, frozen in a space whose borders were made out of his screams. The sound was jabbing at her eardrums, condemning her, cursing her, but she could not look away. Her eyes were fixed in horror on what must have been a face once. Along his hairline was nothing more than shrivelled away flesh of a sickeningly yellow colour, occasionally at such a stage of decay that she could make out the skull underneath. As if to hide this very fact, one side of his forehead was covered by an assortment of bronze wheels, painfully dug into the skin. Cheekbones were held upright by metal rods that appeared to have rusted and further aggravated the flesh surrounding them. One eye circled by something unidentifiable of mesh-like quality, the other underlined by a string of tiny bronze squares that disappeared towards his ear like a caterpillar's tail. Lips that looked twisted and raw and worst of all, the nose. She yearned to force her eyes shut so that she might forget but somehow she knew that it would be impossible to never think of this face again. A fine structure of silver seemed to indicate the artificial bridge of the nose that had been attempted to be created, but it ran into nothingness, dropped sickeningly into a hole that had been covered by what looked like the filter cartridge of a gas mask. Hooks had been pushed deeply into his nasal cavity to keep this horrifying contraption in place and she wondered fleetingly, ludicrously so, how he managed to breathe decently.

Time had woven its illusion successfully once more, making her believe she'd been staring at the face for hours when in truth only a few seconds had slipped by. His scream of anguish grew more prominent and a moment later that terrible face was only inches away from her own.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" he bellowed, his anger frightening her so that she backed away and fell off the bench they'd been sitting on moments ago in complete harmony.

The fall bruised the palms of her hands and sent a shooting pain up her arms and when she opened her mouth to defend herself nothing came out. She could not speak, could not tear her eyes away from the horrible visage, no matter how hard she tried.

"I am an abomination!" he howled. "An unfinished project, as broken as you are whole!"

Her lips trembled, hot tears flowed over her cheeks until she tasted the salty bitterness. She knew now what she had destroyed, knew that she had inadvertently given him hope of acceptance and then crushed it most cruelly.

"A shallow, callous creature like you could never understand!" he yelled.

She could see him stalking around the bench and then he flung himself at her, the fingers of his ordinary hand wrapping around her neck.

"Curse you and your kind!"

She could hear him raging, the sound growing fainter and fainter as darkness began to descend before her eyes. Ugly gurgles joined the discord and just when she thought she was about to fade into the abyss, he staggered away and oxygen rushed into her lungs. She coughed violently, her natural instinct forcing her to suck in more and more of what she had been deprived, there before him on all fours.

Blood was pounding in her head while her body was shaken and it was only when the initial shock had passed that she managed to lift her head to see what had caused him to stop. He was on his knees not very far away from her, clutching his heart while groans of pain escaped the twisted lips.

Out of nowhere, a Siamese cat appeared, drawing angry circles around him and hissing and growling in her direction. Christine realised then that she could get up and walk away. If her body could withstand an attack like this, surely she could force herself to endure the cold water of the lake. She could leave him here in his strange house to succumb to whatever ailment he was suffering from.

A part of her wanted to. But the rest of her couldn't. She just wouldn't be able to live with herself knowing that a man had died beneath the opera house, a man whose fate she could have changed if only she had put her anger aside.

"Erik…what's wrong?" she asked; her voice was husky and low and entirely unlike her own. "Where does it hurt?"

Tears were stinging in her eyes still and she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. It all sounded so ludicrously childish. She could picture Raoul now, kneeling before her at the beach in Sweden after she had fallen and bruised herself.

"Where does it hurt?" The way one might address a child.

The man before her, however, seemed quite beyond words. Again and again his body was shaken by terrible spasms while he groaned and grasped at his chest with such force it seemed he yearned to yank out his heart. She was not equipped for this situation, she had no idea how she could possibly help him. When her father had passed away it had been agonisingly slowly after weeks filled with fear and hope. Erik seemed to be slipping away within seconds.

She was shaking desperately herself but somehow forced herself to shift closer to him. Once more, the Siamese cat hissed and lifted her chocolate coloured paw in warning.

"Can you stand?" she whispered.

Another incoherent sound while he removed his hands from his chest and groped and grasped for something she could not see. Tentatively, she pushed herself another bit forward, hoping to get a better angle so that she might retrieve what he was so desperately reaching for. But the cat refused to tolerate her presence and sank her claws into her skin. Tears pooled in her eyes but through them she could finally make out the object lying underneath the piano pedals. The mask she had stripped away. She couldn't even remember dropping it.

Something broke inside her then, something cracked at the sight of the helpless man in front of her who –even in the throes of death – was most concerned with hiding himself. If he was to die, he would die with dignity.

Mechanically, she reached for the mask, then held it out to him as one might do a peace offering and within minutes his violently shaking fingers caught the mask on the other side. She had expected him to yank it back, to swiftly place it over his face but instead it remained suspended in mid-air, held upright by her fingers on one end and his on the other. It was impossible to bear any more of this. She was crumbling from the inside.

How mad she had been to consider escaping, how foolish to have thought she could make it anywhere alone. If Erik died in this very room she would die with him. Slowly, certainly, and of starvation. She wouldn't have the energy to leave or the conviction to persevere in this maze of passageways and the dark vastness of the lake. This was to be her tomb.

Her hands dropped into her lap and the mask threatened to fall a second time but Christine was no longer paying attention. Instead, she was focused on her surroundings. The cosy sitting room had become dark and suffocating, the strange devices around her reeking of skulls and death. And even the green house she could see from her position on the floor was nothing but a poisonous garden full of thorns and choking vines.

A quick, heavy breath was pushed out of her body as a strange smile appeared on her face. This was what it was like to stare death in the eye. This was the end of everything. This was the netherworld. That's what he had called it, wasn't it? She chuckled softly. A sound that shattered everything.

Little Lotte, terribly nosy.

"Please, father, take me with you."

"Christine!"

The voice was familiar. The voice was commanding. Another smile feathered over her lips.

"Christine! Look at me."

She turned her head and stared at the face that was covered by the golden mask once more. His eyes gleamed sharply.

"The golden jackal…"

"I don't follow, Christine."

She blinked and he looked tired, barely able to remain sitting upright. She blinked and he looked powerful, composed and calculating.

"Anubis, the golden jackal. He ushered the souls into the afterlife."

She spoke matter-of-factly. It was all making sense in her head.

Wasn't it?

Didn't he understand?

God of the netherworld. In Ancient Egypt they had drawn the brain out through the nose with a hook. She didn't know why that was relevant now. She just remembered her father telling her.

"Christine, you have hurt yourself. I want you to stand up, approach the second cupboard from the door and wrap a bandage around that hand."

She nodded to herself. Perhaps that was a good idea. Her hand did hurt rather badly.

With clumsy movements she staggered towards the object in question. There, she found a neatly folded-up bandage which she tried wrapping around her hand. It was laughably big for such a small cut.

"Would you like one?"

She faintly remembered him being in pain also, perhaps a bandage would help him, too.

"Thank you, child, that's very kind of you." The voice was almost tender now. "But I don't require one."

Somehow, he had moved to the sofa. She couldn't fathom how he had gathered the energy.

"You are frightened," he stated, lifting up a hand that barely trembled, "come here. Tell me what you are thinking."

What _was_ she thinking? Surely a question couldn't be this puzzling.

Everything in her head was a muddled mess. Memories of the past mixing with those more recent.

"You have a cat," she pointed out numbly, taking one step closer to him.

The white bundle of fur sat nestled on his lap, its eyes closed, looking to all the world as peaceful as if nothing had ever upset it.

"It doesn't like me much."

He chuckled warmly and beckoned her closer. "I'm afraid Ayesha can be quite territorial. She isn't accustomed to having to share my attention."

A jealous cat? Christine chuckled. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked around the room again.

"Tell me what's frightening you," he asked a second time.

She remembered then to keep walking and shyly lowered her hand into his. It looked perfectly normal now. Not pale and skeletal, just an ordinary man's hand, warm and comforting. She squeezed it and then allowed him to guide her to sit on the sofa next to him.

"I'm frightened you will die down here. I'm frightened you will die and I'll be alone with your body until I die, too."

To her surprise he chuckled warmly. "This shan't be your tomb, Christine. You are a creature of light. You will continue to live for a great, long time still."

"But if you do, I won't find my way out anymore."

"Do you like stories, Christine?" he asked suddenly, shifting ever so slightly.

The cat gave a disgruntled sound and lifted her head, narrowing her blue eyes at her accusingly.

"Yes, father used to tell me stories all the time."

"Like the one about Anubis?" he probed, nodding encouragingly.

"Yes, I thought I'd forgotten about it," she chuckled.

"Have you heard the one about the labyrinth of King Minos?"

She thought very hard, her forehead scrunched in contemplation but eventually shook her head so that her dark curls bounced around.

"Well, to avenge the death of his son, King Minos contracted Daedalus to build him an intricate labyrinth at the heart of which he positioned a terrifying beast, the Minotaur, half human, half bull. Young men were picked by the King to try to survive the labyrinth but all of them fell into the hands of the Minotaur and perished."

Christine gasped and automatically shifted closer to him.

"This went on until Theseus appeared, slayed the terrible beast and emerged from the labyrinth triumphant."

"But how did he find the way?" she questioned.

"How indeed?" he nodded, his amber eyes shining warm and inviting like the sun on the last day of summer. "Why, he had the help of a woman. Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, had fallen in love with Theseus at first sight and couldn't bear the thought of him perishing like all the other men. So she gave him a sword and a ball of yarn which he may use to orientate himself."

"She must have been bold to defy her father like that," Christine whispered, in response to which he drew up his shoulders.

"Women can be as smart as they can be deceptive."

"But I don't have a ball of yarn," she sighed heavily, "and I will never find my way to the surface again."

"But you have something else, Christine," he replied comfortingly and parted his frock to reveal a peculiar item. It was made out of fine strands of gold, the heart of it forming what almost resembled the letter "h" in bronze. "If ever you are lost, consult this to find your way again."

"But I…I don't understand," she frowned, accepting the item nonetheless.

"Perhaps not yet. But you, too, are a smart woman. I am certain you will figure it out when need arises."

"But what about the Minotaur? Mustn't I fear him?" she mumbled and was surprised to find that her question drew a heavy sigh from his lips.

"Oh Christine, who says the Minotaur is inherently evil? Man trapped him in a maze and forced him to kill." He seemed tired and weak before her once more. "Nobody paused to consider that he might be lonely. But who would like to share their company with a beast?"

She could not answer the question but felt an instant emptiness in her chest. Why couldn't she give a satisfactory answer?

"The Minotaur wouldn't hurt me?" she questioned tentatively instead.

She was gazing at the strange object in her hand and when she looked up again just caught his eyes glancing over her neck.

"The Minotaur won't hurt you again…" he answered quietly, regret turning his radiant eyes sad.

She tried to remember why he had focused on her neck but found herself unable to look down. It was as if some invisible force was stopping her from remembering.

"Will you tell me another story?" she probed, hoping it might lift his sadness, but he scooted forward and pulled himself up shakily.

"If you wish it, I shall be happy to. But now you must excuse me. I am feeling rather tired. Permit me to rest for just a short while."

She thought of his terrible attack and frantically reached for his hand. "But what if you die?"

It sounded terrible, put so bluntly, but her imagination was already running wild, picturing herself waiting for him endlessly and finally coming across his dead body.

"Don't worry yourself, child. I promise I'll merely be sleeping." He answered calmly but she felt, nonetheless, that he was running out of patience. "In the meantime, help yourself to any of my books. I'm certain the stories will keep you entertained until my return. Perhaps you'd like more tea also," he suggested, pointing fleetingly at a brass instrument as he was already climbing the spiral staircase. The cat seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

"Is this…is it an urn?" she whispered nervously.

"It's a Russian samovar," he chuckled, "you fill water in it, light the coals and produce tea. There are still enough leaves in there from this morning."

Her eyes remained glued to it but at the same time she would have believed anything he would have told her at that moment.

"Have you been to Russia, too?" she asked, just before he was about to stagger into his room.

"Yes," he nodded, "and I will tell you more as well once I've slept."

And with that he disappeared, leaving her stranded and to her own devices once again. She felt desperate and alone, a small creature trapped in an oversized cage. Without his comforting voice to re-assure her, everything around her took on much scarier forms again. And so Christine did the only thing she could think of, she curled herself up on the sofa and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to succumb to sleep also.


	20. Plague, 1855

_Chapter 19: Istanbul_

_1855_

The architect's warning rang through his head often, caught him off-guard especially in the moments when his mind was focusing on nothing in particular. The unique voice slithered its way into his dreams and had him gasping for air in the middle of the night, covered in cold sweat. It successfully stopped him from pursuing the man for the first few weeks and he tried silencing his guilt by investing his energy in gaining the Sultan's trust.

But one day even that wasn't enough. Reza was on his mind constantly and he couldn't shake the dreadful feeling that he was missing out on some precious time with his son. So that very night, he pushed himself off of the comfortable divan, collected whatever belongings he needed and started towards the Dolmabahçe Palace without rousing any of his men. From his time at court, he had learned that the architect would slave away at the palace until the small hours of the morning and so he was convinced that he would be able to locate him there now also.

Istanbul was once again treated to a mild night, the sky an ink-black canvas onto which the twinkling stars were projected magnificently. The main streets of the city were still bustling with life. Jugglers and entertainers enchanting intoxicated revellers, stealing from the unsuspecting enough to be taken advantage of. Delicious smells wafted out of tiny street kitchens, meats and vegetables audibly sizzling away.

The hush that the building site brought could not have provided a greater contrast. The guards at the main gate had thankfully become familiar enough with him by now to wave him through without questioning his presence at such a late hour. Perhaps they were somewhat curious; after all, they were only human but their experience with such an eccentric man seemed to have jaded them enough to shrug their shoulders at another man engaging in similarly strange behaviour.

Despite the tension that resided in Nadir's body, he couldn't help but marvel at the progress the architect had made. He had heard reports of the construction, the praises of wonder and amazement that a single man had achieved more in two years than the Sultan and his men in four. He could now also witness it for himself. What incredible gift the architect possessed!

Slowly, he meandered through the courtyards the man had carved out, distracted momentarily by the splendour around him. He could fully understand now why the Shah was so determined to get this man to Persia and yet his first encounter had told him enough to know that the architect would dangerously ruffle feathers with his arrogance and determination not to bow down to any leader. The Sultan might be impatient with him at times but still tolerant enough to keep him around, the Shah, on the other hand, would not hesitate to dispose of him quickly.

"Did I not advise you to be careful, Daroga?" the silky voice whispered and drew him swiftly and harshly out of his reverie. "A construction site is not an appropriate place for mindless wanderings. Why, a piece of stone could come loose and crush you."

The warning made him shiver, but determinedly he straightened his back and defiantly tilted up his chin. He'd had quite enough of the architect's showy ventriloquism used only as a cheap trick to induce fear.

"Your consideration is very kind," he remarked politely, "but I can assure you I will be careful. As a matter of fact, I was merely enjoying your craftsmanship. I must say, I couldn't spot a single weak point."

"How delightful," came the dry response and Nadir just had enough time to hear the soft landing of shoes on stone to turn around before he found himself staring into the cold eyes behind the mask.

"Your work at the palace is nearly done. If you leave the rest to the Sultan's other architects and come with me to Persia, I am certain the Shah will find a way to repay you that will prove interesting to you."

He saw no point in beating about the bush and to his surprise, the architect seemed delighted by the insolence he had shown.

"Do you truly think so highly of your Shah?" he questioned. "Or is that merely a script you're following? We both know the man has a certain reputation but I cannot recall it being for his kindness and thoughtfulness where gifts are concerned."

Nadir felt the heat of shame rise to his face, alongside frustration because he didn't dare protest or agree.

"Why is it you have to be so intolerably stubborn?" he snapped at last, though the danger in the other man's eyes quickly cooled his temper.

"You know, Daroga, a man can only live so long on wealth and power alone. But the Sultan offers me far more than that…"

Nadir was puzzled by the quick disappearance of danger in his eyes, as well as the contemplative tone with which he uttered his statement. He tried wrecking his brain to think up what other gifts the Sultan could possibly be bestowing upon the architect but nothing came to mind that the Shah did not possess also.

The warm breeze accentuated the feeling of melancholy that was growing in his chest and when he reluctantly turned to depart once more, he suddenly felt the architect's hand on his arm. He was using his metal one and the grip was so firm that Nadir had no choice but to remain glued to the spot. Quizzically and with an understandable amount of fear, he turned as much as he could to look at the other but found that his attention wasn't even resting on him. Instead his posture was rigid and poised and from the way he was tilting his head occasionally, Nadir deducted that he was listening out for something.

"I don't suppose your Shah has sent others for this occasion."

It should have been a question but it sounded like a statement and moments later Nadir finally perceived the sounds that the architect must have picked up on much earlier. Footsteps growing faster and faster, a soft whisper of something, followed by an almost inaudible metallic clang. He couldn't quite tell what all of this meant but knew that he was in trouble because the architect clearly interpreted it as a threat.

Moments later, the men were upon them, moving silently and swiftly but with a precision that rendered him motionless. The architect had released his arm the minute the attack had commenced and was disposing of most of the men with a quick expertise that confirmed all the suspicions Nadir had developed at the bazaar. Not once did he see a glimmer of remorse in the amber eyes, nor a split second's hesitation. But instead there was a greed and a satisfaction that frightened him almost more than the attack itself. He shivered to think what else he could be turned into in the Shah's ruthless hands.

"You are the chief of police, are you not?" he suddenly heard an angry hiss in his right ear. "Defend yourself."

He trembled at the angry command, the sound that had so harshly broken through the silence of the night. For the assassins, whoever they were, had been largely quiet and focused on the task at hand. Only now did the last remaining one break this cone of silence by uttering a few, soft words in Turkish. Nadir produced the gun from his belt and trained it on the man, hearing nothing more than "Allah"" leave his lips before the architect used his lasso to strangle him like he had done with the rest of the assassins. A last prayer. Nadir swallowed.

Then something came tumbling down from above, it hit the balustrade of a nearby balcony, then opened up, spewing its contents all over the architect. Within seconds he was covered by a whole horde of grasshoppers and other instincts that wormed their way beneath his clothes and, seemingly, also underneath the mask. Nadir could only assume what kind of threat these insects posed for the perfectly composed man before him was screaming and writhing in agony.

Nadir took hasty strides towards him, willing to do something, anything to relieve him of this pain. After all the horrible threats he had uttered, he still had chosen to protect him when the assassins had attacked. He owed him as much as to help him now too.

"Stop, don't touch me, you fool," the man hissed through gritted teeth, "unless you wish to suffer the same fate."

"Allow me to help you!" he demanded desperately, taking another step closer. "Please, let me escort you back to court."

"Parasites are inhabiting my body as we speak," he panted breathlessly, "I'm certain the Sultan would not like a carrier of disease in his palace."

"To hell with the Sultan," Nadir muttered and finally wrapped his arm around the other man's body.

He could feel the tension still, the rapid crawling of dozens of little legs but he did not allow his resolve to crumble. Slowly but steadily he guided the man forward, led him back through the beautiful gardens that seemed to have become one with the night and towards the main gates.

"Your dedication to the Shah is commendable," the man remarked dryly as they passed the dead bodies of the guards and turned in the direction of the old city.

"Do be quiet and preserve your strength," Nadir muttered angrily, "not everything I do is to satisfy the wishes of the Shah."

In response he only received a quiet chuckle. Irritated by the hostility shown to him, Nadir nonetheless managed to somehow rein in his temper and focused on flagging down the nearest carriage. To his satisfaction it happened to be a koçu, a vehicle with heavy curtains designed to carry women through the city, and although the driver stared at them questioningly he lifted the architect's frail body inside. Anonymity was more than welcome now.

As the carriage slowly rolled into motion, the architect automatically shrank away into a corner. Nadir had long ago suspected that the architect did not like contact with others much. Not wishing to encroach on his space, he remained in his own corner and merely studied the man's garments. The fine layer of stone dust had almost completely rubbed off and the larger insects had also disappeared. Still, he did not doubt that the smaller, most dangerous ones had remained somewhere beneath the surface.

The carriage bustled along slowly and with every minute that passed, Nadir could see the man before him slipping away. His posture, so rigid and full of tension, eased until he lay almost folded up in the corner of the compartment. The hands in his lap were starting to slide towards his legs, drooping limply over the edge and his breathing, too, seemed to have grown shallower.

"We are almost there," Nadir found himself whispering.

Useless platitudes, of course, since he had no idea how to help the man at the palace. Still, it felt safer there. At last, the carriage came to a stop and Nadir instantly clambered out and paid the driver, before pulling the architect's body out also. The man automatically slumped against him, his feet dragging uncoordinatedly over the ground.

Together, they made it inside the building and to his chambers which were even more richly decorated than his own. He barely had time to admire the jewels on display, the finely crafted instruments before the man's knees finally buckled beneath him and he was forced to catch him.

"Come on now, focus," he grunted.

The sheer effort of dragging him to the nearby divan proved almost too much.

"Save your strength, Daroga," the man murmured quietly, "I can feel the disease spread through my body. The fever already resides in my bones."

"Then I shall get you a cold compress. Now be quiet and undress."

Before the man could argue further, Nadir turned his back to him and strode through the chamber to locate the bath as well as a chest with his personal belongings. He extracted a handful of clothes of the finest material which he swiftly deposited by his side and then picked up a cloth which he dipped into water before returning yet again.

To his chagrin, however, the stubborn man hadn't followed any of his instructions. Ready to order him a second time, he noticed upon stepping closer that the architect seemed to have lost consciousness and quickly, his anger subsided. Not wishing to undress him without his consent, Nadir decided to start by stripping off his mask instead. He couldn't have guessed that this action would award him with an even more intimate glimpse.

The face he uncovered was astounding, horrifyingly so. Gasping softly, he pressed the damp cloth onto a forehead that seemed to hold more bone than flesh while his eyes flickered over the rest of the visage, struggling to take it all in. One half appeared to be beautifully crafted of fine metal while the other half appeared to have decayed already. What drew his attention most, however, was the nose with its exquisite silver bridge and golden nostril wings containing subtle but magnificent details.

Water from the cloth slowly dripped down the ordinary brow, then disappeared in a hollowed out cheek. The architect stirred but did not awake. Swallowing against the fear that was building up inside him, Nadir lifted the cloth and felt the forehead underneath. It was hot, too hot, he had been right in saying that the fever had already started to inhabit his body. Perhaps it was best if he roused the Sultan, urged him to send one of his medics but as his eyes returned to rest on the exposed face yet again he wondered if the architect would truly want it. He had come to know him as an arrogant, proud man and because of that could not imagine he would be able to tolerate anything posing a threat to his dignity.

Perhaps, the lesser of two evils then, would be if only he saw him in this state. It was a great gamble, one he might have to pay with his own life but he needed to do something.

Whispering a soft apology, he pulled the man's body against his and began lifting up his garments. He had only succeeded in removing the outer layer when the body sprang to life and a hand wrapped itself around his neck. Angry words in a language he did not understand were flung at him as he struggled to remove the hand. The amber eyes before him were undoubtedly feverish, wild and raging but also unfocused.

"Erik," he pressed out the name he had heard whispered at court many times. "Erik, please."

He knew that it was likely futile, hadn't he just witnessed the man kill in cold blood, but still he hoped that his name would stir something inside him that would give him pause at least.

"I do not…want…to be touched…"

A mixture of Turkish and Farsi, a desperation that suggested a terrible reason. Then the fingers slipped away and he could breathe fully again.

"I won't touch you if you don't wish it," he managed hoarsely, "but please try to do it yourself. We must burn these clothes."

His hands were shaking as he lifted up the other garments he had brought for him.

"Your heart is too open, Daroga," the architect remarked and a tired smile graced his features, "one day it will bleed out."

"It will have been for the right cause then," Nadir answered stubbornly, then averted his eyes when the man began undressing himself further.

He had seen enough to know that the rest of his body was also marred, scars of varying sizes and intensities had seen to that.

"Do you know what kind of creatures were unleashed on you?" he asked over the soft rustle of fabric.

"A biblical plague, no doubt," the man chuckled wearily, before adding dryly, "I'm afraid I did not have time to inspect them individually."

Nadir rolled his eyes, accepted the garments placed into his hands and threw them out onto the balcony. He would see to them being burnt in a short while.

"I suspect the locusts were more for show than anything else. They are hardly carnivorous. As for the rest…perhaps some flies, some maggots and ticks. One of them the carrier of disease, at least."

Nadir nodded silently and studied the shadow of a man before him.

"Oh please, Daroga," the architect sighed, "stop giving me such a pitiful look. Clearly you've seen now that I was born dead from the beginning. Philosophically speaking, it is merely the closing of a great circle."

"I don't have the stomach for cowardly acts like these," Nadir muttered quietly, "I witness them daily in Persia and they repulse me."

Something like mild surprise and respect registered in the amber eyes.

"It is the way of society," the man answered, shrugging his shoulders, "now turn around and approach the wall, yes, that wall. I know it is unassuming, I made it so on purpose. Touch the tile in the centre."

Nadir frowned, staring at the diamond of white tiles in front of him, it was impossible to say which one he was referring to.

"Come, come now, man, use your eyes."

The man's impatience irked him but also brought a nervous tension back to his body and so it was with great relief that he finally located and pressed the correct tile. The pressure seemed to trigger a kind of mechanism that revealed a small compartment to him which contained a number of bottles, flask and vials.

"Take the one with the clear solution and drink it," the architect instructed next and Nadir followed them though only as far as to remove the vial.

"Go ahead," the man drawled, "had I wished to poison you I would have done so sooner."

"What is it exactly?" Nadir questioned nonetheless, raising one curious eyebrow.

He couldn't allow his eyes to linger on the man in front of him for fear of betraying his discomfort at the strange face.

"A concoction I have made and that's all I'll say on the matter. Now drink it. Your stupidity will, no doubt, have got you infected also and I don't want to be responsible for starting a Turkish-Persian war because the chief of police is suddenly found dead."

Nadir nodded slowly and then gulped down half the solution which tasted tangy and bitter. The rest he extended to the architect.

"And I will not take the risk of becoming the murder suspect of the Sultan's chief architect."

Once again, his stubborn defiance seemed to cause the man great glee and with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, albeit a weary one, he downed the other half of the solution.


	21. Santa Lucia, 1882

_Chapter 20: The Netherworld_

_1882_

 

When Christine awoke again, she was still lying curled up on the leather sofa. A nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach reminded her that something dreadful had taken place, but thankfully her head also felt clearer now. The cosy sitting room felt safe once again and she even remembered the greenhouse fondly, took it for the splendid oasis it was. Slowly, she unfurled her legs from underneath her and sat up. She couldn't say how many minutes or hours had passed since Erik had disappeared into his room. Here, beneath the opera house time stood still and there was so sun, no moon to orientate oneself.

Fear seeped through her skin again but she quickly shut it off, locked it somewhere inside her chest to prevent it from winning the upper hand. What frightened her more than the dreadful face she had uncovered was the fragility of her own mind. Even now there was a blockage there, an invisible barrier that stopped her from recalling everything that had taken place. But she knew enough, knew that somehow something had snapped and that Erik, although the wronged party, had been forced into looking after her.

She should never have stripped the mask away. She should have respected his wish for anonymity. But she had been curious, much too curious and self-righteous also, believing she would be the one to make a difference. He had deemed her unique and perhaps that's why she had believed in the foolish notion that she'd be able to bring about change. But she couldn't. She was only a simple girl shoved unbidden into the role of heroine.

Guiltily, her eyes wandered up to the door that remained locked. It had a beautiful tree drawn on it that she hadn't noticed before. He was a man of many contradictions, that much she had come to learn, of metal and flesh, of rage and tenderness. It was quite impossible to grasp it all and yet infuriatingly easy to be captivated by it.

Silence began weighing down heavily on her as more and more time passed and there was still no sound, no movement that indicated his return. Fear whispered dark suspicions into her ear once more and she tiredly rubbed her eyes, trying to ignore them. A distraction, that's what she needed, lest she slip back into the dark abyss she had only just pulled herself out of. Then she remembered his words, his invitation to help herself to tea and books. It had seemed impossible to do anything but go to sleep in his absence, but now she was thankful for the suggestions he had made.

Carefully, she placed the soles of her feet onto the carpet, tested gently if they were capable of carrying her weight before pushing herself upright at last. As she stood, something slipped off her lap and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Confused, she bent down to retrieve the item and suddenly remembered the story of the Minotaur and the strange riddle Erik had given her. Even now that her mind was clearer, she still failed to decipher what the odd pendant meant. It was a key, he had said, one that would help her find her way if she was to ever get lost in this maze without him.

Driven by curiosity once more, she paid the samovar and the bookcases no further heed and ventured instead out of the little cottage. Perhaps she could find an explanation for the letter "h" somewhere in this floating house. With a last glance back at the sitting room, she tiptoed down the steps that led to the docking area. Probably the most unassuming part of the building. It was true that there were big pipes running into the water and even a giant bronze wheel that seemed to serve some kind of mechanism but other than that there was only a square of grey stones, separated by fine lines and gaps every once in a while.

Christine ventured forward as much as she could and peered into the dark as she had done the previous day when Erik had first led her across this courtyard of sorts. But it was still impossible to make out where the lake ended and the stone passageway up to the Opera began. Frowning, she turned around again and scanned the façade of the cottage for any traces of the letter "h" but nothing except for the giant, illuminated clock stuck out.

Noting the time, she directed her steps towards the greenhouse next. The humid warmth assaulted her body instantly, but the flowers and plants were so beautiful that she quickly overcame her instinct to leave. The pace of her footsteps slowed down instinctively as she wandered through the winding paths, reaching out to caress a petal here, a leaf there. Erik's collection of poisonous plants still frightened her and so she made sure to give it a wide berth but everything else was truly magnificent.

It made her wonder how long he had been living in this strange house beneath the ground. How had he even built this? When had he planted the first seed? Were there others who knew of his existence?

With the fresh smell of roses filling her nostrils, she ascended the spiral staircase and cast her eye one last time over the oasis before her. This was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful part of the house but, sadly, it contained no trace of the letter "h" either. Wrapping the pendant's chain around her fingers, she studied the little symbol sceptically once more. Perhaps by focusing on what appeared most prominent to her, namely the only familiar shape she could make out, she was losing track of the greater picture. There were more strands than the highlighted red ones that made up the letter, after all. Perhaps they all signified the various passageways that existed here beneath the Opera but perhaps only the red ones were those that mattered.

She narrowed her eyes, noticed for the first time that the straight line of the "h" possessed an additional horizontal line which made it look like a cross. Perhaps the point where the two lines met was meant to indicate the location of the house, but Christine remained unconvinced. After all, they had descended down various passageways for a long stretch of time and the key made it impossible to tell on which level one was meant to be.

Sighing in frustration, she gave up and lowered the pendant once more and then left the greenhouse through the door through which Erik had first joined her. She did not know where it would lead to but could see no harm in exploring since it was left unlocked. If she had expected some kind of miraculous revelation she was to be disappointed. The door led out to a bridge which connected the far end of the greenhouse with the far end of the cottage. It did not possess any clues either, only some oddly highlighted areas like the ones that indicated the trapdoors on the stage of the Opera, though what he might need those for she could not imagine. Still, she paused inches away from them, ran the tip of her shoe over them to test if the weight was enough to push them open. But the trapdoors firmly remained shut, leaving her to wonder where they would lead to if they did open. Down to the docking area where there was nothing but hard stone waiting to break the fall? Or into the cold depth of the lake's water? Both options made her shudder and so she hurriedly moved on.

Back in the cottage she emerged from a seemingly ordinary piece of wall just at the top of the brass staircase. She only had a second to orientate herself, to assess whether the sitting room was still deserted or not, before the door to her left opened and Erik emerged, tall and composed, not one hair out of place yet still – or to her at least – obviously weakened.

He seemed caught off-guard at finding her there and she felt unexpectedly guilty, suddenly doubting whether or not he would have appreciated her strolling through his house quite so freely.

"You are feeling better," he concluded calmly.

His amber eyes were roaming across her face, assessing her for signs of fatigue or nervous disposition.

"I've slept for a little while," she replied, weaving the chain of the pendant through her fingers, "it seemed for the best."

It struck her again how lost he looked, as if he was more at ease when she wasn't well, as if it frightened him to find her independent and determined. She had been so accustomed to his power, to having to bend to his moods and his leadership that this morning the sudden change had made her uncomfortable. But now she saw something rather endearing in the shyness and the innocence that seemed to surround him. What a conundrum he was, indeed.

"Are you feeling any better?"

She knew he wouldn't give her an honest answer, if only to protect her from another wave of panic. But she found herself wishing that he would confide in her. Surely, anything, no matter how ugly, could be dealt with as long as one knew the truth.

"Yes, the rest seems to have invigorated me also," he remarked stiffly and then extended his arm, "but I believe you were asking for another story. I'd be happy to keep my promise…perhaps over some tea and pastries?"

She bit back a chuckle because his manners were as surprising as they were enchanting and, knowing this would ease his tension, she nodded happily. Together they descended down the staircase once more and not long after she found herself back on the leather sofa she had woken up on. Erik, in the meantime, poured water to the brass urn he had called a samovar, lit the coals with ease and then strode towards the other corner of the room where he pushed open a little window to reveal a tray with baked goods. To this he added a jar and carried it all back to set it down on the table before her.

"I prefer my tea as simple as possible but experience has taught me that to most people the bitter taste can be less enjoyable."

She nodded and wondered briefly how he had acquired such knowledge, how many people he had shared tea with.

"Honey will help sweeten it," he proceeded, turning his back to her to pour their tea, "I used to keep bees also but the warmth and the humidity sadly became too much for them."

This time, she could not suppress the chuckle that spilled over her lips, but it died swiftly when he turned around to fix her with a sharp gaze.

"Do I amuse you?" he questioned, setting the teacups down sharply.

With great effort, she swallowed down the nervousness his annoyed attention had created and shrugged.

"Somewhat," she then conceded, "the thought of you keeping bees is as delightful as it is quirky. But I had come to expect nothing else from an extraordinary place like this."

Her words appeared to appease him somewhat, for he sank down next to her on the sofa with an air of indulgence and curiosity.

"So you would say that under certain circumstances you wouldn't be averse to oddness?"

She could hear the careful forming of hope in his tone and it nearly broke her heart. After she had cruelly exposed what he had been most desperate to hide, after the rage he had unleashed upon her, he was still here now pleading with her almost for a slither of light.

Once again she found herself wondering what she had done to be cast in a role she couldn't possibly perform. Or could she? Was she capable of saving him, after all? Her thoughts quickly grew heavy and knotted and to buy herself more time, she opened the jar and lowered a spoonful of honey into her tea.

"Odd is a…strange word," she remarked at last, lifting the spoon slightly up so she could watch the remainder of honey melt slowly away, "I am not certain what I think about it. It almost begs the question what normal is meant to be."

She risked a glance at him but found that the impatience in his golden eyes did nothing for her nerves. He clearly required an immediate answer but she couldn't help but feel that her response would mean a commitment also and she wasn't ready yet to do so without knowing anything about the rules and restrictions.

"I always thought of myself as ordinary, that was until I came to Paris. Everything here was so strange, frighteningly so, and everyone viewed me as odd because I appeared to be nothing like the rest. I did not like that, I probably still don't. After my father passed away," she paused momentarily to wash the fresh lump away with some tea that had formed in her throat, "I did not wish for anything like this to happen. All I yearned for was a bit of normalcy."

His sleeve brushed against her bare wrist as he stiffly sat up straighter.

"I want stability and safety, I don't want to stand out or draw attention but no matter what I do, I will always be different from the rest of the Parisians but perhaps, given time, they will come to accept my oddness as a piece of their normalcy."

His gaze was burning her face and it took great courage for her to turn around to look at him.

"Normalcy is what you make of it. I find the thought of your bees, your exotic plants and your peculiar house enchanting."

She hadn't offered up the commitment he had clearly been asking for but was relieved to find that he seemed satisfied nonetheless. Perhaps this was enough for now.

"Now I believe you owe me a story," she encouraged him with brave playfulness, "perhaps one about the travels you seem to have undertaken."

To her delight, he tipped his head into his neck and let out an amused chuckle.

"You certainly are very curious, are you not?" he then asked, reaching for his tea.

"Well, it isn't often that I find myself in the company of such a well-travelled, knowledgeable man."

Her words clearly appeared to flatter him, for he set his teacup down once more without having touched it and then turned more towards her to give her his full attention.

"The story of the samovar is a relatively ordinary one. I happened to be performing at the Great Market of Nizhny-Novgorod when I acquired it."

"Performing?" Christine intersected softly. "Does that mean you were singing or playing the piano?"

He drew up his shoulders slowly and some reluctance returned to his eyes.

"Neither…both…" He seemed to struggle making his mind up. "I performed acts of magic, but there was music also…"

More he seemed unwilling to divulge and yet this newly acquired knowledge filled her with childish glee.

"Will you perform for me once?" she questioned enthusiastically.

His amber eyes widened with something akin to fear before he reluctantly nodded.

"Perhaps…but now let me think of a story."

She felt momentarily chastised but bid her time, sipping at the sweetened tea and helping herself to some of the colourful macaroons laid out on the table.

"When I was a young man and I had lost my way, I took the strenuous journey across the Alps and into Italy," he began pensively and Christine was glad for the delicious flakes of the pastry crumbling in her mouth for she would have otherwise interrupted him already.

She desired to know how young he had been, what exactly he meant by losing his way and how on earth he managed to cross these majestic mountains on his own.

"I had no aim, no goal, other than the need to see the splendours of the world. An old, wise man had once told me that he had discovered who he truly was in the basilicas, in the small alleys and ancient monuments. Perhaps I was trying to do the same, or perhaps I hoped to be close to him one last time."

His voice trailed off and his posture tensed as if he realised that he had said rather more than he had wanted to.

"It was December and I was starving, the cold in the mountain doing its own to lead me to a swift demise. But then that stubborn spark of life I had encountered as a young boy stirred once more and pushed me to fight for survival. She found me in one of the twisting streets of her city, performing mediocre card tricks with fingers so frozen from the cold that they often refused to obey me and a metal arm that hadn't been properly maintained in quite some time. She was a small girl with untamed auburn hair and dark brown eyes like molten chocolate, and she seemed fascinated by me. What little I had to offer entertained her sufficiently, for she returned the next day and the day after that, first offering a coin, then a piece of bread. She never spoke to me and I never spoke to her. She was so young still, only nine or ten, and I feared what the sound of my voice might do to her."

Christine frowned but did not comment. It was an odd statement but she could not deny the intoxicating effect his voice had had on her.

"I liked that she approached me by her own accord, liked seeing that spark of compassion in such a tiny soul. If this was to be my last experience, I did not wish to mar it with the power of my voice. She kept me alive for a week or so but then circumstances changed. The city was tightening the law around travellers and gypsies, and beggars and entertainers were no longer welcome. But I had no kumpaniia to return to, nor the strength to move on and so I stayed, hidden away in the same old alleyway. She found me there, she sought me out, broke through the barrier of silence and beckoned me to follow her. Had I been in my right mind I would have refused, but I was desperate and so I followed her. She led me to a modest house, her home and beckoned me to sleep in the stable. Fatigued and exhausted I did so."

Carefully, Christine lowered her teacup, afraid that the sound might jar him out of his reverie. The questions in her mind had only multiplied but she was still too riveted to ask him.

"She kept me company when her father was gone and I repaid her by performing all the magic I could think of. One evening, she was so excited, so happy, telling me that it was her turn now to show me some magic."

He chuckled warmly, a sound that made him appear younger and more carefree than she had ever experienced him. Even his eyes were dancing with mirth.

"When I asked her what she meant, she told me that on this night in December magic happened. She told me that the ghost of a kind lady would stroll through the streets and reward children who had been good. I indulged her innocence and kept my scepticism to myself. After all, I had grown up with similar legends also. But as the day faded into night and darkness fell, all sounds died down. Then, softly, a bell began to toll. It roused me from my slumber in the hay and lured me to seek out a higher place so that I might be able to observe. Of course, I knew that I wasn't meant to. The miracle would only happen to those good enough to rein in their curiosity but I wasn't a child and I thirsted to see."

Christine realised then that she was holding her breath, that she was as mesmerised by his story as she had been by the tales of her father. She could vividly picture this foreign village at the foot of the mountains, could feel the stillness of the cold night air, the snow that danced and twirled gracefully before settling in a fine layer on roofs and trees.

"When the bell stopped tolling, soft beating of hooves on the cobble stone street took over. The atmosphere was potent, making the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. And then a light appeared, faintly at first then growing in intensity. It swayed back and forth, seemingly floating in thin air, shining the way for a woman dressed in flowing white garments. A donkey accompanied her, its saddlebags heavy with sweets which the woman proceeded to distribute at every house she passed. I was almost 18 then, most certainly not a child anymore and I knew that this was likely just another woman from the village keeping an old legend alive, Santa Lucia they called it. But in that moment the illusion was so perfect because everybody was willing to believe it that I found myself being swept away also."

He sighed deeply and Christine could feel his contentment and melancholy alike and it wasn't surprising. Of course, a man like him would be moved by this collective display of determination to believe and maintain an illusion. How many times, she wondered, had he wished for even a fraction of such goodwill offered to him.

"I know Santa Lucia. It was my favourite celebration as a child. In Sweden, in our little village, a girl would be chosen every year to play the part, she'd get to dress in those flowing white garments you described and wear a crown of candles. She'd then lead a whole procession through the streets, illuminating the terrible darkness and bringing hope and light into the world."

His eyes had grown wide and hopeful once more and she thought to perceive a slight twitch of his fingers, as if he yearned to grasp at her, as if to strengthen the bond this mutual experience had created. Then a shadow passed over his features and he stood up so abruptly that she flinched and nearly spilled the remaining contents of her teacup.

"Forgive me," he remarked stiffly, "we seem to have got carried away and forgotten all about the time. I must bring you back now."

She hastily swallowed down her tea and returned the cup to the table. The change that had overcome him was so sudden that she couldn't help but feel rejected. She knew she would be relieved eventually that he was releasing her because a few hours ago she hadn't been certain of it, but the manner in which it was taking place now made her think that she had disappointed him somehow.

"My dress-" she tried feebly but he waved her concerns away.

"Will be returned to the atelier post-haste. Now come before your disappearance gets noticed."

His tone left no room for further arguments and so she reluctantly stood up and followed him out onto the docking area once he had collected his cloak and hat. Erik remained stoically silent and while he occupied himself with a mechanism she did not understand, she found herself turning back to look at the little cottage and the towering greenhouse one last time. As ambivalent as her feelings were, she could not shake the sadness that welled up at the thought that she might never be returning to this strange place again.

"Christine!"

He sounded impatient and she hastily turned and strode back to his side. In the black water of the lake, a gondola had somehow appeared. Its sleek body adorned with beautiful golden drawings of mythical creatures, its ferro ending in the head of a snake, its mouth open and fangs exposed. She swallowed nervously but bravely pushed herself to accept his outstretched hand which helped her settle down in the little boat. He followed quickly after and with incredible confidence began pushing away from the dockyard and towards what she could only assume to be the passageway leading up to the Opera.

The vessel slipped soundlessly through the water, creating an eerie atmosphere of weightlessness as there was only disorientating blackness around her. She focused on Erik then, on the firm strokes of his arms and the glimmer of yellow that illuminated the dark and was grateful for what little comfort it brought her.


	22. Heartache, 1855

_Chapter 21: Istanbul_

_1855_

 

In the months following the assassination attempt, Erik and Nadir reluctantly grew closer as a mutual respect developed between them. Nadir knew that his duties had ended that night, that he could have burned the man's infested garments and left, but somehow he couldn't. It wasn't that he had come to care for Erik overnight – that was a notion so ludicrous he firmly pushed it away – but he had at least come to fear him a little less. He was no longer just a terribly talented architect who used his greed for power and wealth to intimidate others, but a broken and frightened young man who had learned this to be the only safe way to relate to a world that was determined to shun him.

Still, Nadir had learned to not underestimate the man either. Somehow in silence they had reached the shared understanding that the incident was not to be brought to the Sultan's attention and so they had been forced to rely on each other for care when the fever and the other symptoms of the illness got the better of them. During this time, Nadir had gained first-hand experience in Erik's terrible mood swings. He had witnessed himself how the man could be consumed by melancholy one minute, then act extravagant and indulgent the next. He had learned that he possessed a mischievous, sometimes dark sense of humour that could just as swiftly boil over into fury and blind rage.

In those first few weeks it seemed impossible to predict his behaviour though later he'd grow better at recognising the clues. For now he was merely glad for having saved another man's life and tentatively hopeful that he would stand a better chance at persuading Erik to join him to Persia now.

It was on an evening close to the turn of the year, when he collected his courage once more and ventured into Erik's chamber to plead his case. To his surprise, the main room was deserted. This caught him off-guard because he had fully believed Erik to be there tonight. Granted, his inability to continue work at the palace had made him testy and impatient, but he had conceded himself that his body just wasn't strong enough yet to carry out such work. Upon the Sultan's orders he had been forced to appoint another man as temporary chief architect, a man whom he called to his chambers several times a day to demand updates and reports.

So where was he now?

Nadir hummed to himself and proceeded deeper into the chamber with caution. As Erik's health had steadily improved, his quarters had become cluttered with a range of knick-knacks that sometimes baffled Nadir's understanding. He knew that Erik hid his most-prized possessions in secret compartments he had somehow built into the walls, but the objects he found lying about were of a different kind altogether. Some of them resembled handguns and other weapons, others were completely unidentifiable to him. But it wasn't a rarity to find the man experimenting with dangerous substances or electric currents, his thirst for knowledge apparently never quenched.

Spotting that the doors to the balcony were ajar, Nadir tore his eyes away from the mess that surrounded him and quickened his steps.

"Erik?" he called softly, hoping that drawing awareness to himself would prevent him from another unpleasant attack. Erik's instincts were vicious when cornered. That, too, he had learned.

The breeze blew through his dark hair and denied the existence of any other sounds.

"Erik?" he tried one more time and was granted a chuckle at last.

"You really mustn't make such a racket, Daroga, I can hear you just fine."

Disgruntled for being toyed with again, Nadir frowned and tried to turn in the direction of the voice only to stop in surprise when he spotted the man in question perching perfectly leisurely on the roof of the palace.

"I would like a word," he said as politely as possible, but it was hard to remember his manners when the man before him prided himself in such complete absence of them.

He watched Erik shift to sit in a cross-legged position, arranging an array of items all around him that he couldn't quite make out.

"I'm afraid I'm rather too busy to come climbing down. If you wish to talk you'll either have to project your voice and let the court hear or come up here and join me."

Oh, how he tired of these endless games!

Erik seemed happy to ignore how much was at stake at any given moment and it frustrated him, especially in light of his continued absence from Reza. But he couldn't really blame Erik for that, not yet, because he didn't know what pains he had taken to be here.

Rubbing absent-mindedly at the dull ache in his chest, he scanned the wall for something to hold on to and then pulled himself up as best as he could. The climb wasn't a very far or difficult one, but his body was nonetheless quick at letting him know its limitations and he was grateful, in turn, for Erik's metal hand that clamped around his arm and helped hoist him up the final stretch. He thanked him quietly and then granted himself a moment to catch his breath while casting his eye over the splendidly illuminated city before them and the dark waters behind them.

He understood why Erik preferred conducting his business up here, knew that it wasn't for the view alone. In the time they had spent together recovering from the illness, he had been woken up often enough by Erik's anguished screams and incoherent mumblings of places and people that meant nothing to him. He had encountered a man of extraordinary genius without whose knowledge of medicine and herbs they would not have survived but also one who could have just as easily perished by the restrictions the recovery forced upon them. On a particularly difficult day, when Nadir had seen him pace up and down the length of his quarters like a tiger restrained by a chain, Erik had reluctantly offered him a brief explanation. He did not like being caged, he had said, and the fear in his eyes that was almost invisible thanks to the raging anger had told Nadir that he was speaking from experience. He wasn't a stranger to atrocious acts and, therefore, Nadir did not question his choice of location tonight.

Instead, he focused his gaze on the assortment of objects around him. Expecting something foreign and remarkable, he was almost shocked to find that they were nothing more than little mirrors positioned at various angles so that the moonlight and the glow of a lantern Erik had mounted nearby shone in a way that offered the best illumination.

He only noticed then that Erik had removed his mask and was tinkering away at his face. He'd grown so accustomed to a companionable silence between them, to looking elsewhere because Erik didn't like being stared at that this had completely escaped him. He supposed then that Erik had been right in saying that men only were aware of the things they wanted to see.

"Should you be doing that to yourself?" he probed carefully, knowing already that his question would not be well received.

"I am sure we can agree, Daroga, that the damage was already done. I am merely trying to create some cosmetic improvements."

A dark laughter rumbled from his throat and Nadir averted his eyes again. It was almost sickening watching him picking away at the yellow skin or pushing pieces of metal into it as if his face was just another architectural project. And although Nadir knew that Erik only saw this process as refinement, he couldn't help but feel also that in a way this refinement was nothing more than a disguise for self-harm. It wasn't difficult to see that Erik loathed his face, it wasn't even difficult to grasp why he felt that way, but would he know when to stop? Or would he keep picking it apart until nothing was left anymore?

"The Sultan is dangerously ill," Erik suddenly said with an air of impatience.

Perhaps he had grown tired of waiting for Nadir to speak his mind. But this new revelation made his blood run cold. After all, the Sultan was no fool and had surely noticed the ill health of his chief architect. If he discovered what had prompted this illness in the first place and that it had been kept from him on purpose, this could spell their death.

"I do wish you'd learn to mask your feelings, Daroga," Erik sighed heavily, lifting a little cog up with a set of pincers, "or one day they'll get you into trouble. It is not the sickness that you fear. We did not cause this. But it is one simple enough to catch also, especially when one is in contact with so many members of the public and shares one's bed with various women…"

Nadir looked up curiously, had never before heard the man speak of the Sultan's various marriages. But he should have known that a man so lonely and deprived would hold nothing but contempt for these kind of traditional customs. When Rookheeya had passed, he, too, could have had his pick of women but none of them could have helped him overcome his loss.

"He called me to his quarters this morning," Erik proceeded, "to confide in me just how unwell he'd been feeling. After listing his symptoms he allowed me to examine him also."

Nadir was more than a little surprised to hear that the Sultan had taken Erik into his confidence, but he reasoned that it might have been in part born out of desperation. If his symptoms were truly that dreadful, why wouldn't he consult a man capable of extraordinary skill? Of course, he made sure that Erik did not see his surprise. He was far too susceptible to flattery to accept any kind of protest. Thankfully, Erik appeared to take his silence as a sign of positive attention as he continued seamlessly.

"Unfortunately, the diagnosis won't be a good one. He will lose his appetite before long and start growing thinner, the cough that's plaguing him now will grow so bad that he will produce blood as well. Sooner or later he will succumb to fever and chills and before long, he will die."

The indifferent announcement left a hollow emptiness in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't so much because Nadir had come to care about the Sultan, but because he knew what his loss could mean for the political relationships. The last thing the world needed was another power-hungry nitwit to cause chaos and destruction in a place where modernisation and inclusion had tentatively started to blossom.

"Surely this information is confidential," he finally voiced, glancing at the man who was still casually working on his face.

Erik produced a non-committal sound after a while and adjusted his mirrors.

"Then why are you telling me?"

He would have liked to believe that he had done so because he had started trusting him and because he needed someone to talk to as well. But Erik always had his own agenda and he'd be a fool to underestimate it now.

When the man failed to answer, however, Nadir turned to study him once again, more carefully this time. His relaxed posture and detached demeanour were quite deceptive. His hands, both mechanical and ordinary, worked more rigidly and his strange face was showing definite signs of concern. Perhaps he felt threatened by the possible absence of the Sultan who had granted his safety and standing at court. Perhaps, despite his aloofness, he was frightened that his life would lose all direction.

"The palace is almost finished," Nadir offered carefully, "you've crafted most of it and overseen the final touches. Perhaps it is time to move on to a different project."

"You are shameless," Erik laughed, but thankfully the sound was devoid of any anger or threat.

As a matter of fact, he seemed much older in that moment. Like an aged man who had seen quite enough of life.

"It could be a chance. A goal."

"To enslave myself for years to a ruthless man? It's all such a dreadful circle, isn't it?" A heavy sigh. "I am not certain I'm the man your Shah wants. I am the bringer of modernity and progress."

Nadir narrowed his eyes and tried to read more from his face. But his last statement remained inscrutable. Beneath his garments, the dull ache in his chest grew sharper.

"What do you know about the world's affairs, Daroga?"

He frowned and tried to direct his attention back to the conversation but it was difficult when it felt as if inside of him a well-oiled mechanism was slowly grinding to a halt.

"Whatever my Shah permits me to discover," he answered.

He was turning light-headed, warmth shooting through his body followed by cold chills. But he couldn't afford to make his excuses now, not when they were finally pursuing the topic.

"I know about the wars of any neighbouring countries. About the wealth the Shah envies."

"No,no, no," Erik remarked curtly, tapping his instrument against the roof, "is your world really that small, Nadir? What about Europe?"

He tried to breathe calmly and wiped perspiration from his forehead with hands that started to shake badly.

"I…I don't know…"

He lowered his hands and gripped on to the roof as best as he could. Why wasn't there a cool breeze?

"Everything is changing, Daroga," Erik continued, his tone taking on an almost childlike, excitable sound, "everything has been changing for years. England is fully modernised and France is quickly following suit. There are inventions out there that would shatter your imagination. There are more people like me."

In the mania Nadir could also detect a glimpse of hope and longing, although he had no idea what he meant by people like him.

"Now I could return to France if I wanted," Erik proceeded but Nadir couldn't help but sense a bluff behind his words. After all, he wasn't shy when it came to obtaining what he wanted so surely he would have left already or at least have no qualms leaving now. So something was stopping him, but his head was too hazy to surmise what it could be. "But instead I have chosen to stay here. The Sultan has seen what I can create. He has accepted modernity into his country. Now if only your Shah would permit me to do the same. I could be the herald for change for the rest of the world!"

He sounded delusional, obsessed even and yet the undercurrent of hope was so strong that Nadir knew he had to hold on to it.

"Come with me," he pleaded, his vision tilting so he had to squeeze his eyes shut. "If you have convinced the Sultan you can win over the Shah. He's a greedy man, interested in anything that makes him stand out from the norm. You could do that for him. You could make him different."

Something cramped up sickeningly in his chest, had him gasping for air. Erik's face swam before his own and he could only just make out that he seemed concerned.

"Please, I beg of you. Come with me. I have a son he…" Blackness tingled beyond his eyelids. "My little boy, he's unwell. I must return to him, but I cannot do so without you. Please, Erik, there is nothing left for you here."

Then everything went up in flames.

Nadir awoke sporadically, most of the time to find Erik's worried face hovering over him. Sometimes he could only hear cursing. But for the longest time it felt as if his chest was being ripped open, as if something vital was being extracted from him.

Reza infiltrated his mind time and time again and he begged Allah to watch over him because he was certain that he wouldn't survive this terrible pain. He never wished a miracle upon himself, only wished for one for his son.

It would turn out a most cruel twist of fate that he would be granted life when his son would not be spared. Erik's words had now become a haunting premonition: _Your heart is too open, Daroga. One day it will bleed out._


	23. Boundaries, 1882

_Chapter 22: Paris_

_1882_

 

The abandoned dressing room lay still and quiet around her. It was as if nothing had changed though surely it should have. She'd only been away for one night and one day but to her it felt as if a whole lifetime had passed. So there had to be something about this room that appeared different also.

A soft breath rushed out of her mouth, small yet big enough to fill the space around her. Christine hadn't moved since Erik had deposited her here again. There was no other word than that. There had been no goodbye, no fond farewell, just a cold instruction to meet him here for their next lesson the following evening after the performance. As if nothing had happened, as if she'd seamlessly fit back into the ensemble, as if everything had not been tilted on its head when he had taken her away to his house and introduced her to the real him.

Her chin trembled and she allowed her knees to give way, sinking down to the dusty floor as the first sob broke forth. It was finally starting to sink in now, the intensity of everything she had experienced. There hadn't been a moment before to catch her breath, to process because it had felt dangerous to let down her guard in an unfamiliar environment. Only now could she admit to herself that she was lost and confused.

Erik had manoeuvred her into the role of prima donna then left her to fend for herself. She did not know what had happened to Carlotta or if he'd had anything to do with her absence on the evening of the premiere. Truth be told, it was too much to even contemplate now. She wasn't prepared yet to impart any moral judgement on him yet, needed to focus on those things that would have a more immediate effect on her first.

She had accepted the role thrust upon her but failed to carry the burden that came with it. She had delivered a mediocre performance which meant that she was replaceable, especially in Paris where there was only room for greatness. In all likelihood, the managers would put her back into the ensemble where she'd be despised yet again. She'd be forced to start over from the beginning.

And would Meg still be by her side and Raoul? After she had pushed them away so harshly?

And where would Erik fit into all of that? Would he continue to teach her just as he had done before, ignoring how his world had bled into hers? Would he take her back to his house if the whim overcame him then cast her aside when he saw no use for her anymore?

Oh, how desperately tired she was. Tired of being twisted this way then that, tired of trying only to be disappointed, tired of having to understand feelings that were much too big and complicated. If only she could trust herself to make her own decisions, then she wouldn't feel so needlessly swayed by outside forces.

"Oh father, please give me the strength…" she thought to herself, before standing up again.

Wiping her eyes she turned to look at the darkened mirror, wondering fleetingly if Erik was still watching. But there was a stillness in the room that told her he had left a long time ago. Now she had to pick herself up and enter the dormitory again, there was no use putting it off any longer. With any luck most of the girls would be asleep already, worn out from another performance provided, of course, La Carlotta had returned to the opera house.

The door creaked softly when she pushed it open to enter the large hallway. Everything around her was cloaked in darkness, but despite the rollercoaster of sensations in the pit of her stomach she pushed on. When something closed around her wrist she nearly screamed but a small hand quickly flew to cover her mouth and given the close proximity Christine could at last make out the face of her friend.

"Careful now or you'll wake up the whole building."

Even in the darkness she could see the mischievous gleam of her eyes.

"Well, you've startled me," she whispered against her hand which was only slowly retracted.

"I didn't mean to. I've been waiting for you ever since you disappeared."

"Here? In this corridor?" Christine asked incredulously.

"Well, occasionally I had to get a bite to eat," Meg grinned which wrenched a chuckle from Christine that helped loosen something coiled tight in her chest.

"Surely your mother did not like that."

"And when has that ever stopped me?" Meg shrugged. "You disappeared in that room, completely out of sight, no trace of you left. I'm certain you understand why I needed to see if you'd return."

Christine swallowed, touched by her friend's concern but also at a loss as to what to offer in response. Erik had not given specific instructions on the matter, but she was certain that he would not be pleased if she divulged details of his life, his whereabouts to others. After all, in this realm he was the Opera Ghost, bringer of hope and aid to some, herald of darkness and violence to others.

Watching her friend struggle to produce words, Meg quickly supplied: "It's alright, Christine. I know you were with him."

Despite the darkness and the certainty that she had held a moment ago that he was gone, she peered over her shoulder and into the void. The pendant tucked away into the sash of her white dress seemed to burn a hole into her skin, a red-hot reminder of all the passageways Erik had built. Who was to say that he wasn't watching them from one of these hidden vantage points, after all?

"We mustn't talk about him, Meg," she whispered anxiously, tugging at her friend's hand in an effort to get her to move.

"You seem frightened," Meg remarked who was only reluctantly forced into movement, and when Christine glanced over her shoulder once more she could see that her forehead was crinkled into a frown.

No, this wouldn't do either. She could not have Meg grow suspicious of him or he might feel that she had betrayed him.

"Nonsense," she chuckled quietly and added while resting her hand on the handle of the dormitory doors, "I'm just trying to stay out of trouble. God knows I'm in too much already."

Meg's scrutinising gaze softened and she nodded. "I suppose that's true. For someone as quiet and soft-spoken as you, you have certainly displayed a knack for getting yourself into trouble."

Christine smiled faintly, wishing to emphasise how little desire she had for any such difficulties but instead pushed down the handle. The dormitory was basked in the soft light of the moon falling in through the window and she very nearly breathed a sigh of relief. It was silly, she knew, but there was something re-assuring about a world with a sun and a moon, a steady flow of day into night and night into day. Though thinking back to her conversation with Erik, she wondered if this was merely the normalcy she was used to and if, like Erik, the oddness of living underground could come to be the norm as well.

For now, however, she sought solace in the familiarity of her surroundings. The bunkbeds with their flimsy sheets that lined the walls, the adjacent wash room, the mess of dresses and belongings on the floor. Thankfully, it was indeed late enough so that most of the girls were asleep and those that weren't were much too drowsy to pay her or Meg much heed. Perhaps they didn't even realise who it was that had just returned.

"Aren't you tired from your performance?" she asked her friend in a whisper while tiptoeing to her own bunk, but Meg's face quickly clouded over.

"Tonight's performance was cancelled. La Carlotta was still too unwell and," she paused, gesturing awkwardly, "you weren't here to be her understudy."

Christine felt her face flush as fresh dread settled in her stomach. She couldn't have known, of course, that she was expected to be reprising the role after such a mediocre performance and even if she had, she doubted that Erik would have let her go. Still, she couldn't help but feel that she had messed up, hadn't shown up when she was meant to.

With a heavy sigh she sank down onto her mattress and cradled her face in her hands.

"I'm terribly sorry, Meg," she whispered, "I feel I've disappointed all of you. The managers asked me to fill in for La Carlotta, it's true, but they did not indicate that this would extend to more than one night. I simply thought she was indisposed. I did not imagine she would miss another performance, you know how confident she is, how she loves the limelight."

Quietly, doubts began whispering into her ear again, pushing her to see that Erik had to have something to do with her disappearance, but she shook them off stubbornly. She refused to go there tonight.

"It's alright, Christine," Meg spoke softly, coming to sit down next to her. "This business is confusing and especially the higher-status employees can twist and turn and in the end still find a way to blame their mistakes on us. Truth is, they do not know where La Carlotta is and they're merely saying that she is unwell to appear less helpless." She paused and seemed to read the fear and concern on her friend's face. "It won't be pleasant but this, too, will pass."

Christine nodded bravely and then shifted to find comfort in her arms, the soft touch of body against body helped settle her frantic heart, helped clear the mess of thoughts in her head.

"Your suiter is very stubborn, however," Meg whispered softly into her ear, "he came back again today and demanded to see you. He even went to the management to complain."

The thought of Raoul kicking up such a fuss over her wasn't surprising, but it was still mortifying. He had never cared what kind of scandal his actions could trigger, how his passionate words must look to the outside world. Perhaps it was merely a natural instinct born out of years with a father who was much too concerned about appearances and customs and in any case, it was endearing enough as long as she did not involuntarily become part of the rumours.

"Raoul has a heart that's much to kind," she explained softly, pulling back a bit to let Meg see the seriousness on her face, "I am certain he was merely concerned."

"Oh, I know," she chuckled, "the baron tells me he's quite the wildcard in his circle. He's mostly forgiven his impulsivity, of course, because of the mature manner in which he conducts his business, but I fear such passionate outbursts only make him more favourable with the ladies."

The meaningful look that accompanied the statement did not escape Christine and yet she was too tired and confused to know what to do with it, really.

"Thank you for waiting for me," she remarked gently, retrieving her nightgown from underneath her pillow, "but now I really am quite tired. I hope you don't think me rude."

"Not rude so much as evasive," Meg chuckled lightly but dutifully stood up so she could go about her business, "but I know you know that you're not off the hook yet."

Christine did her best to humour her, to smile at her when really the playful warning made her feel nothing but unwell because she still did not know what kind of explanation she could offer.

Hearing Meg's footsteps fade away to her own bunk, Christine slipped the pendant out of the sash and under her pillow for now, quickly changing into her nightgown a moment later. Then she curled up and as subtly as possible, reached a hand into the gap between the bed and its frame to pull up the mattress and deposit the pendant underneath it. She hoped that it was safer there.

She had just let go of it when a hand on her back very nearly startled her.

"Forgive me, but I have to know," Meg whispered excitedly into her ear, "what is his world like? Is it beautiful?"

Christine swallowed, her heart aching for her sweet friend who seemed determined to cling on to the mythical tale she had constructed around herself. Guiltily, she thought about the dark, damp corridors, the lake that seemed vast and never-ending, the trapdoors mounted on a bridge.

"It's unlike anything in this world," she responded carefully, "it's strange but, yes, also beautiful."

"I knew it!" Meg chuckled delightedly and then the soft pressure on Christine's back disappeared and footsteps faded anew.

Memories were forming like thick clouds in her head and she did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Then slowly, everything faded to black.

* * *

 

Daylight appeared only slowly the following day as her body was still hurting from the shock of it all and refused to stir. But she was aware of the voices around her, the whispered insults, the gossip. She could almost picture the other girls crowding around her bed, staring and pointing. But when Meg finally appeared to wake her nobody was even looking at her. As dreadful as it was to be ignored, there was also a blessing in it and so Christine hurried to the washroom, abandoned the dress Erik had bought her and slipped into one of her own.

At breakfast, she tried to fend off more of Meg's questions and then followed her dutifully to the stage where the managers were meant to make an announcement regarding the next performances. It all felt like such a blur, like a parallel universe, walking down these same old halls as if nothing had happened. There were too many roles to play and she really was at a loss of where to turn. The girls were ignoring her even more pointedly now and Christine made certain to shrink into their shadows in hopes that it would placate them somewhat.

At last, the two managers appeared, both bearing the signs of the loss they had suffered. Monsieur Moncharmin would have looked almost ordinary in his monocoloured trousers and suit, had he not been such a playfully extravagant man before. In light of his personality this new appearance was almost subdued, as if he was donning the colours of grief. Monsieur Richard, on the other hand, had not changed a single detail of his outfit but his face showed visible traces of sleep deprivation and concern. By their side stood Madame Giry, confidently looking and determined, as if she had become part of the management overnight and could easily tackle the difficulties they were facing. And perhaps she thought that she could. At any rate, Christine could understand why she felt less unnerved than the two men next to her.

"The events of last night were…regrettable," Monsieur Richard began, rubbing his hands together nervously. "We had certainly hoped to mark our premiere as this Opera's managers with something greater than an understudy and a cancellation."

Christine could feel herself shrink further, could feel her face heat up as if she had been directly dragged in front of everyone and chastised.

"The truth is," Moncharmin proceeded nervously after a while, "that La Carlotta is-"

"Right here!"

The booming voice resounded firmly through the auditorium, ensuring instantly that all heads turned. Christine, too, had moved to search for the source of the voice and eventually located the diva striding down the right aisle, her companion Signor Piangi by her side. He had been out of his mind with worry, Meg had told her over breakfast, and had even threatened to sue the management.

Given that knowledge, Christine found that the pair still looked relatively calm, though on closer inspections they, too, bore the signs of nervousness. Carlotta, albeit confident and arrogant as ever, kept glancing over her shoulder repeatedly in a manner that reminded Christine of herself and Signor Piangi kept wrapping his arm protectively around her, no matter how many times she shrugged it off.

The managers, on the other hand, appeared incensed and shocked respectively, as if one of them believed to have fallen victim of a terrible prank while the other felt to be seeing a ghost.

"Madame Giry, if you could?"

The box keeper looked caught off-guard and a little offended to be ordered around like that but then dutifully followed Monsieur Moncharmin's sweeping gesture and began ushering the ensemble out of the auditorium. Christine followed the girls quickly but ended up being spotted nonetheless. Madame Giry's eagle eye found her and her hand clamped around her arm just as swiftly.

"Where have you been, girl?" she whispered angrily.

Christine couldn't shake the feeling that she was blaming her also for the cancellation the previous night.

"I was…I've been indisposed," Christine whispered softly, cursing herself afterwards because somehow the statement still ended up sounding arrogant, as if she was playing the part of the diva who had been taken ill by a mild headache.

To make matters worse, the sudden holdup seemed to catch the attention of the management as well and before long she found herself ushered back and in front of them.

"Why does the girl have to be here?" La Carlotta demanded to know in her thick accent and Signor Piangi's eyes narrowed automatically, as if he, too, took personal offense to her presence.

"Mademoiselle Daaé was good enough to fill in for you on opening night, Signora," Monsieur Richard explained patiently before turning his attention to her, "but then, sadly, was unable to reprise the role last night. We had to cancel and refund the whole house."

Christine couldn't determine who he seemed angrier with, her of Carlotta, and she didn't really know what to say to that. After all, at face value, both of them had suddenly disappeared and then re-appeared as if nothing had happened.

She glanced at Carlotta, looked into those green eyes and found a suspicion there that she mused was probably present in her own as well. Without uttering a word, it was as if a silent understanding passed between the two women. Then the older one spoke up again.

"Well, I am back now and well enough to woo my lovely audience. I will personally apologise to them tonight," she continued, a faux-sweet smile on her face, "and promise them an additional performance later in the year. I am certain you will find the financial support for that endeavour."

It was almost amazing to see a woman exert such power. It was saccharine and back-handed, of course, but still somewhat enviable. After all, a subtle threat like this hinted at a lot of backbone and courage.

Christine was lost in her own reflections until suddenly her name echoed loudly through the auditorium and she realised, with some regret, that Raoul had joined them. She willed him to be quiet, to rein in his passion a little bit but he seemed too relieved to see here to be capable of that.

"Where have you been? Is everything alright?"

A silent conversation passed between him and La Carlotta as well, one appearing even more suspicious of the other.

"Yes, I'm quite alright now, thank you," she whispered quietly, pleading with him with her eyes.

"Well in that case," Monsieur Moncharmin chuckled nervously, his eyes sliding uncomfortably from one person to the next, "no further action ought to be taken."

Whatever threats had passed between Piangi and the managers and Raoul and them seemed to have sufficiently unnerved the man.

"May I be excused, Messieurs?" she asked politely, hoping to be able to slip away to the chapel before this evening's performance and her lesson with Erik.

But it appeared Raoul had other plans.

"I will walk you back to your dormitory."

Determinedly, he turned his back to the two managers before they could protest and offered his free arm to her which she accepted only because propriety dictated it. By the time they reached the wings her ears were ringing with talk of secret liaisons and terrible misconduct and she swiftly pulled back her hand.

"Whatever is the matter, Christine?" Raoul questioned, leaning heavily on his cane.

She could see now that he looked utterly exhausted, concern edged into his beautiful features.

"We aren't children anymore," she replied rigidly, "we must think how our behaviour reflects on the outside world. I can hardly fault La Carlotta for her assumptions the way you keep carrying on."

It was terrible upsetting him like that, watching his face contort with unconcealed hurt. But it was better like that, she tried to remind herself. Especially for a man of his standing.

"I don't want more scandal, Raoul. I really am quite alright now. I was not prepared to take to the stage that night and I was disappointed by how badly I had done."

When he opened his mouth to protest she held up her hand to silence him quickly.

"I did not wish to hear your passionate insistence as to my talent. I just needed…some time to think. And you cannot go around threatening the management because of my decisions, alright?"

He nodded stiffly, as if the movement alone caused him great pain, then he produced a little envelope from his pocket and extended it to her.

"I did not get a chance to give you this on opening night. I do hope you'll consider attending."

He bowed politely and then turned around and walked away, the steady beat of his cane on the floor gradually fading. She swallowed guiltily and stared down at the little card in her hand. A formal, courteous invitation to the New Year's celebrations. He had always been considerate, but she doubted that she would find the strength to go though there was still enough time left to change her mind.


	24. Ikigai, 1872

_Chapter 23: Mazandaran_

_1872_

Mazandaran Prison wasn't a place for the faint of heart. As the chief of police, Nadir had known as much. It was a place where violence and torture were still very much alive; ironically, just as was the case in the rest of Persia. But here permission had been given to grant such violence, to celebrate it in the name of justice. To Nadir, it was nothing more than a little power fantasy that sickened him. But he had learned to stomach it somehow perhaps because in a place like this, any weakness would instantly be spotted and taken advantage of.

Still, for a man who had never expected to be kept in this prison he was adjusting to reality relatively well. But then again he'd been there for several years now and his experience of the world had grown numb. He didn't much like to revisit the events that had got him captured. He did not hold any resentment towards Erik but the memories were simply too painful. Yet sometimes he was bound to encounter them again. They were everywhere, after all.

Out in the country was a half-finished palace that could have been the jewel of Persia had court intrigue and thirst for power not interfered. And here in this prison he'd been placed in a chamber of glass built by the same architect that heated up during the day, exposed from all angles to the merciless sun and cooled down at night when the stars twinkled above.

Truth be told, Nadir was surprised he had made it this long under these conditions. Erik had given him no more than a handful of years and Erik had rarely been wrong.

He had saved his life that evening in Istanbul when he had collapsed on the roof of the Topkapı Palace. When he had finally regained consciousness long enough to listen, Erik had explained that he was suffering from a heart defect that would kill him before long. The organ had a terrible weakness and would cease to fulfil its function if left untreated.

The notion of treatment, however, had been so ludicrous that Nadir had expressed his tired amusement which had prompted the man to lay out in great detail just how unpleasant his demise would be if he did not seek help. But it hadn't been so much the case of refusing to seek help – after all, he wanted to be there to support his son - than refusing to believe that there was any such cure out there. After all, how could an organ possibly be treated when it was so badly damaged?

That's when Erik had started filling him in in more detail about the things that started being possible in the rest of Europe. The work on his face had been inspired by a man he had seen who had transformed his entire visage into metal. But there was more. He'd heard rumours about prosthetics being refined, hearing being restored and sight sharpened all thanks to the progress of mechanisation. Seeing Nadir's horrified face, he had quickly back-peddled and admitted that he hadn't always been this open to these inventions. He told the gruesome tale of being sold by his mother to some so-called surgeons in England who had promised to fix his face. He told this story calmly and almost detachedly, as if it no longer belonged to his life then he swiftly moved on to make his fears seem laughable. He pledged that the moment he had seen with his own eyes just what could be achieved, he had become a believer and an advocate for change.

It was with similar conviction that he stated that Nadir's heart could be fixed as well. As a matter of fact, he had already developed a replacement organ, a prototype that, given the right surgeons and the right knowledge, could be fitted into his chest to keep him alive. As Erik had started to ramble off details about electrical currents and a re-routed blood supply - in short, ideas that Nadir could not follow - he had taken hold of the little organ and studied it. As morbid as it was, it was also utterly fascinating. There, in his palm, lay the tiny replica complete with lapis lazuli coloured tubes and chains.

Noticing his interest, Erik had abruptly stopped talking and gone on to explain that his model wasn't finished yet but that he would be handed the final product so in the future he could get the help he needed. At that point in time, Nadir had merely nodded to placate him, for the idea was too foreign still to invest any real interest into. But what it had proved to him again was that on certain levels Erik was also a medical genius and perhaps, just perhaps, he would be able to devise a miracle cure for Reza also.

So they had finally set off to Persia because Erik, in the end, had needed little more convincing though this had still surprised Nadir greatly. After all, he had got to know him as selfish and conceited and proud, not the kind of man to be invested enough in the life of a young boy to drop everything he had worked for. How the Sultan reacted to their departure, Nadir never found out. He only sought solace in the knowledge that he hadn't been angry enough to send his men after them and one could only hope that the finishing of the new palace had been enough to please him.

In either case, Nadir quickly saw that Erik was struggling with his decision although he did not regret it. He had liked the Sultan far more than most men and was visibly tense about entering the territory of a man renowned for cruelty and traditionalism. Nadir could not fault him for that but chose to selfishly ignore it. Reza was his main priority and everything could wait until they had seen him.

In the end, the reunion was as heartfelt as it was painful. Too many months had passed and in his absence the beautiful boy he'd known who had complained about dizziness, fatigue and loss of vision had grown to be frail and helpless. The servants helped bring him out into the yard because he had lost most of the strength in his legs and it quickly transpired that he had gone almost completely blind by now. Still, his little arms embraced him with all the strength he could muster while he whispered words of love and affection against his chest. Nadir's heart constricted painfully then once more and he struggled hiding the tears in his eyes from the servants that were dutifully awaiting orders.

"We shall rest here for a while," he informed them eventually when he could trust his voice to obey him, "go and prepare refreshments."

As he watched them disappear into the familiar house of clay, Reza's attention turned towards Erik whom Nadir had, truthfully, all but forgotten about.

"I knew you would convince him, father," he spoke with such adoration that it would make any parents' heart swell with joy.

His pale, unseeing eyes tried to locate the man before he continued.

"Is it true that you are a magician as well as an architect, Sir?"

To his surprise, Erik slowly sank to his knees and held out his arms as if asking for Reza. Nadir studied him questioningly for a moment before obeying his wishes and lowering his frail son onto the ground. He would have fallen, had he not had Erik's arms to hold on to. Still his legs wobbled unsteadily, the sight producing a lump in Nadir's throat. Had Erik not exuded such confidence, he would have picked his son up again and stopped him from undergoing this ordeal. Though on second glance, Reza really did not seem to mind the struggle of remaining upright. There was too much excitement on his face, too much expectation that it appeared he might not have even noticed it.

"Yes, Reza," Erik answered warmly in his fluent Farsi.

The tone of his voice was gentle but serious, not at all altered to fit the needs of a child. He treated his son like he was his equal and the meaningfulness behind the gesture did not escape Nadir. It was in that moment that he knew that his son would not be spared, that all Erik had needed was one glance to confirm his suspicions. From then on, it took all the strength Nadir had not to collapse onto the ground.

"Would you show me a trick, Sir? Please, Sir, please!"

Another warm chuckle washed out of Erik's mouth as he nodded. "Of course, but you must be patient and allow me to prepare. If you can do that you will be handsomely rewarded."

Nadir, who had known his headstrong, impatient boy all his life was taken by surprise when he dutifully agreed and turned back to him, arms outstretched, asking to be carried to his room. Unable to look at Erik, he complied and entered the cool shade of the house. Everything was exactly as he had left it and he made a mental note to thank and reward his servants for their good work. He lowered Reza onto his bed where he promised to occupy himself and then strode into his room to let down his guard. But he couldn't cry, the tears simply did not come. Perhaps he knew somewhere inside that the real flood was yet to be unleashed once all hope had died. Because for now, despite his sinking realisation a moment ago, a small sliver of hope persevered. Or perhaps it was avoidance, a refusal to accept the terrible truth. Perhaps Erik could not heal Reza entirely, perhaps he'd always be blind and lame but surely he could help him live. Surely, Allah would not be cruel enough to take his boy from him.

Running a hand through his raven hair, he steadied his breathing and deposited whatever precious belongings he had acquired in Turkey in his own secret compartment. Then he braced himself to step before Erik once more.

The architect had taken a seat outside on the terrace that overlooked the peaks and slopes of the hills around them. It truly was a magnificent sight, the green hues intermingling with the dark and dusty winding roads that dotted the mountain. But even that could not settle his aching heart.

Not far from Erik were Nadir's servants, keeping a professional distance while occasionally shooting curious and mildly concerned glances in his direction and he really could not fault them for that. Erik alone would have been an unusual sight with his eccentric garments, metal arm and half-mask that showed off what progress he had made on that side of his face. But now it appeared that he had surrounded himself with the majority of his saddlebags which Nadir knew to be heavy and filled to the brim. Some of their contents were haphazardly strewn across the floor, other, smaller parts lay in different piles on the table next to an untouched glass of sharbat-e khakshir.

When catching the eye of one of his servants, Nadir nodded encouragingly and bid them to leave before he found a way of settling down near Erik.

"They are suspicious," the architect began without looking up from his handiwork, "perhaps they think me a thief."

"Perhaps," Nadir granted softly, lifting his own drink to his lips and relishing the wonderful taste of turmeric and saffron, "they have been in my employ long enough to become protective over the family and its needs."

Erik hummed softly, positioned a long pole of bronze between his legs and began screwing a second but sloped pole onto it.

"You are a most unusual man," he remarked after a moment of exertion, "I suppose it is only natural that your servants would be as well."

Nadir bit his tongue to prevent himself from pointing out the hypocrisy of the comment and busied himself watching him work for a while instead.

"Your son is very sick indeed," Erik at last said when he had made considerable progress on his project.

"But you will be able to help him?" Nadir questioned, wishing desperately that his voice didn't sound so terribly hopeful.

"We shall see," Erik hummed quietly and Nadir pretended for just that moment that he avoided his eyes because he was too busy focusing on his project.

For hours they remained out there on the terrace while Erik assembled what looked like a walking aid on wheels and a pristine silver music box with a small bird on it which he carefully programmed. As the sky darkened and dinner was served, Nadir was even more amazed to find that his son ate calmly though with some difficulty and did not once press or probe Erik about the magic trick he had been promised. This eerie patience had to have something to do with the power Erik's voice exerted, Nadir reasoned, it had to because he could not grasp any other explanation. Children of his age weren't this calm and collected when a giant treat dangled tantalisingly close to their noses.

"Now Reza," Erik at last spoke up again and instantly the boy's head snapped around, "you have done extremely well today so you shall receive a present. I know you have asked me for a magic trick and you shall have one, though I fear it might be different to the one you have been expecting."

Nadir watched his son's brows draw together in confusion before the tension eased once again and he nodded. "I would be happy about anything, Sir."

This obedience made a chill run down Nadir's spine. Reza had been raised to be respectful at all times, after all, Persia was a dangerous place for those unable to act in a certain way, but the manner in which he was talking now left no doubt on Nadir's mind that he would have followed Erik blindly without questioning any of the instructions he might receive.

"You are a very good boy, Reza," Erik praised gently and helped get him back up on his feet. "Now I want you to hold on to these handles as much as you can," he instructed, positioning him in the middle of the walking aid, his hands on the handles so that the contraption could carry his weight, "I want you to walk as much as you can and for every step you will be rewarded. In the end, I promise you will be able to float in the air. Do you think you can do that?"

A gasp of complete and utter ecstasy escaped Reza and he nodded his head fiercely, finally impatient and overwhelmed with joy. Still, it seemed to cause him great difficulty to put one foot in front of the other and Nadir watched him with a mixture of unease and pride as he slowly dragged himself around the terrace.

"You must keep an eye on him," Erik murmured quietly though Nadir really didn't need telling.

With every painful step Reza managed to take, a music box nestled at the front of the contraption elicited a beautiful note which after a while started to form a fully-fledged melody. Spurred on by this, Reza tried walking more and more until the music seemed to arise everywhere around them, a symphony on their own terrace. Reza was starting to sweat but his determination was so feverish, so driven by this remarkable music that he pushed on tirelessly and when Nadir made a move to rise to his feet, Erik wrapped his metal fingers around his wrist and encouraged him to sit back down.

And then he witnessed a kind of magic with his own eyes. Just when he thought Reza might collapse from exhaustion, when the music reached its tantalising peak, Reza's legs lifted off the ground and with his hands still firmly grasping on to the handles he began to float. Nadir uttered a gasp of disbelief as he watched his son levitate in absolute rapture. But then his eyes finally registered what they had missed before. A fine cast of almost transparent material gently fitted to Reza's fragile legs, pushing them up into the air at a nearly perfect horizontal line so it gave the illusion of flying.

It was obvious that Reza did not have one doubt about the illusion. His childish imagination carried him and Erik had certainly counted on that. But who was he to judge, really? Until a moment ago he had also believed his son to be flying.

When the music finally faded and Reza landed softly back on the ground again, his feet shook so terribly that they crumbled beneath him and he collapsed. Worriedly, Nadir lunged at him and cradled him to his chest but his son was fully conscious and delighted, tears of joy streaming down his dark cheeks.

"I've got you," he murmured softly, placing a kiss on his hot forehead, "let's get you some rest."

Reza was too stunned still to speak and it was only when he was tucked safely into bed that he whispered: "You will thank him for me, won't you, father?"

"Of course," Nadir re-assured him, "now sleep. You have tired yourself out."

"Will he show me some more of his tricks?"

"Perhaps if you ask him politely tomorrow." He nodded and disappeared, uncertain whether he wanted Erik to offer his son more magic or not.

They didn't speak anymore that evening when he returned to the terrace. He had no words to offer and he couldn't shake the feeling that Erik, himself, was rather overcome by what he had witnessed.

In the following months as he began moving between his commitments at court and his promise to Reza, Erik opened up more. He had hoped to see Reza make progress, hoped that the magical illusion would motivate him to walk more which would strengthen his muscles. But in the end he came to realise that he was fighting a losing battle. Reza struggled retaining food which meant that his energy was sparse but worse than that, no amount of muscle seemed to help him walk, suggesting that the problem lay elsewhere.

As one month dragged slowly into the next, Nadir not only got to witness his son's decline but also how a man he had barely known worked himself into exhaustion to keep his son alive. With every visit Erik looked more and more tired, juggling commitments to the Shah and the Khanum clearly taking their toll. Nadir had hired informants that told him what horrors he had to tolerate, how the main woman of Persia carefully harnessed his bloodlust and hatred for her own perverse desires. Still, Erik refused to talk about his experiences, firmly decided that he would not taint his time with Reza with the horrors of Mazandaran. Still, Nadir secretly had a suspicion that what he witnessed here with Reza was just as terrible.

The gate to his cell opened so suddenly that Nadir startled out of his reverie. As confused as he was by the intrusion, he was also grateful that his dark and sad thoughts had been interrupted.

"A verdict has been reached," the guard ground out disinterestedly, "you are to be exiled. You have 24 hours to collect your belongings, after which you are required to make your own way out of the country. To acknowledge the services you have done for the Shah, you will be granted a small pension which will simultaneously serve as a reminder of the court's kindness and generosity."

Given any other moment Nadir would have snorted derisvely but the situation was so bizarre that he was entirely taken off-guard. He had expected the death penalty or to be retained in this prison until he was an old man at least but then the Shah's whims had never made much sense to him and perhaps he had decided that exile was a far worse punishment.

Shaking and weak, he somehow pushed himself to his feet, extended his thanks and followed the guard until he was handed over to another. Of course, they wouldn't trust him to return to his house alone. No, he was escorted by two officers who flanked him on either side like the outcast he had become. How grateful he was that Reza was no longer around to witness this shame. He was grateful, too, that he had passed away peacefully, something that had seemed unthinkable at one point.

Erik, who had eventually ascertained that the problem lay in Reza's brain had suggested to perform an operation to fix some of the damage done by the dreadful disease. Nadir knew that he should never have allowed it but he'd been a desperate man, clinging on to every last shred of hope offered to him. And so Erik had given his son a vial to drink whose contents had carried him off into a deep, deep sleep. He had explained that the draught would numb his body to pain so he could operate in peace at which point Nadir had left the room.

He had prayed to Allah to forgive him for interfering with his will, had prayed that this peculiar, gifted man would succeed in easing Reza's pain, but it wasn't meant to be.

He knew that he'd never forget Erik's anguished scream that echoed from his son's chamber, nor the despondency with which Erik reported that the sickness had spread too far, that even the tools he had come to rely on could not fix it anymore, that the best they could do was to let Reza slip away quietly.

Tears welled up in his eyes even now, as he steadily marched on towards his house.

He would always remember how utterly heart wrenching it could feel to do the right thing. Would always hear that deceptive little voice in his head entreating him for just another second with his son, just another moment to say goodbye.

Shrugging off his escorts, he stepped into the dark house that was still faithfully maintained by his servants. He nodded at them wordlessly and went into his room to retrieve whatever was left that hadn't been destroyed when this space had been ransacked by the Shah's men.

In the end, his belongings barely filled two saddlebags, also because he gave whatever he could spare to his servants to repay them for their years of dedication to his family. Then he mounted his horse, not quite ready to embark towards a new life.

As his horse trotted away from the place he had fallen in love with his wife, from the place he had seen his son take his first tentative steps, he thought of Erik who had spent most of his life as an outcast. He considered the kindness he had displayed, a kindness and innocence that had died along with his son when he had thrown himself into revenge, murder and opium. He thought of him and wondered what he had made out of his life, held to the promise he had forced him to make when Nadir had helped him flee.

He thought of all the other lost souls roaming the world and then the man with the jade eyes who still wore his damaged, broken heart on his sleeve wept, praying that Allah truly had a plan for him.


	25. Notes, 1882

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos!

_Chapter 24: Paris_

_1882_

No candles burned in the abandoned dressing room, the mirror loomed dark and eerily before her, covered – just like the floor – in a fine layer of dust which spoke of its disuse. The air around her was thick and stale and absolutely, infuriatingly silent. Christine had hoped to have got used to it by now but she hadn't, it was just as unnerving as ever.

Since her last lesson with Erik on the evening after her return she'd not seen or heard from him. Like a dutiful pilgrim she had ventured to his shrine day after day but he had not been there. Puzzlement had gradually given way to anger which had given way to concern. If only he hadn't insisted on being so mysterious, she might have felt more capable to make sense of the situation.

But what did she really know about him?

He was a man clearly older than her who hid his disfigured face behind a mask. He had a beautiful singing voice, could play the piano and was a great storyteller. He'd kept bees once, loved plants and books, had travelled far and probably been part of a so-called kumpaniia once. He could be kind, patient and affectionate but also ill-tempered, violent and rude. Which left her with more question marks.

Had his mood taken a turn for the worse and he'd suddenly found her unworthy of his time?

Had she inadvertently done something to anger him and this was his punishment? After all, he'd ignored her before when she had crossed an invisible line.

Or was it his health? Was he suffering another attack or worse, was he dying?

There were simply too many plausible explanations to settle on any one at this time. With a heavy sigh at the prolonged silence, she unfurled her fingers from around the sharp edges of the crisp white envelope she'd been holding and carefully placed it down on the dresser. Perhaps he'd respond to her letter at least.

At that precise moment a sharp knock broke the silence in two and startled her so much that she whirled around.

"Are you done, Christine?" Meg's voice quickly followed and she shook her head at herself for forgetting about her.

"I'm coming!" she called out softly, took one last look around before picking up her skirts and leaving.

"Anything?" asked the petite blonde who with her red dress and golden sash looked like a life-size Christmas present.

"Nothing," Christine replied, shaking her head.

The concern on her face had been so apparent that she'd had no choice but to tell Meg what was troubling her.

"I am certain he'll appreciate the gesture," her friend tried re-assuring her gently, but then she'd refused to believe from the very beginning that he might be cross with her and since there was no need revisiting that conversation, Christine only nodded.

Meg hummed happily to herself and guided her through the large corridors towards the grande staircase at which they were meant to meet and mingle for a Christmas toast. Everyone's voices were already floating towards them as Christine paused one more time to examine her reflection in one of the great mirrors that lined the walls of the Salon du Soleil. Her burgundy chiffon dress was cut a little bit more flatteringly than she would have liked, but Meg had emphasised that this was the current Parisian fashion and that, really, amongst all the other eccentrically dressed people she wouldn't be noticed. Christine decided now that perhaps Meg had been right and quickly adjusted her hair which was cascading down her left shoulder in a side ponytail. Then she gave Meg the signal and together they entered the foyer.

Although a large space, able to house many patrons on performance nights, today it seemed to burst at the seams. Ensemble members, musicians, patrons of the arts and audience members of higher rank lucky enough to secure an invitation were bumping elbows on the beautiful marble structure. The air was rich with the scent of wine and delicious canapes. There was a buzz of escalating voices that ebbed and flowed and made it nearly impossible to hold a decent conversation. A richly decorated Christmas tree stood at the centre of the staircase, around it an array of fake presents. The giant marble railings were covered in deep red ribbons and golden stars were twinkling down from the balconies.

Watching it all, Christine felt trepidation well up in her. She wasn't certain that she truly wanted to join in, to push her way through the masses only to have to yell at someone to make conversation. But Meg's enthusiasm was so infectious that she dared venture into it, after all.

It was like wading into a sea of bodies, making closer acquaintance with some people than she would have liked. Still, the wine which a stressed looking waiter had pushed into her hand, helped settle her nerves and left a faintly sour but nonetheless pleasant taste on her tongue.

They stayed there for quite some time, chatting as much as they could while stealing food from the trays that went around until a strange wave appeared to pass through the crowd. It was hardly palpable at first, nothing more than a soft movement that indicated a shift in the group. But then someone repeatedly stepped on her toes and Christine turned to see what was going on.

The truth was, she could spot nothing so extraordinary that it would warrant the stir it had caused. And yet, when she caught the jade eyes of the man she had seen only once before she was suddenly overcome by a feeling of dread, as if she, too, wanted to move away from him just like the rest of the throng had done. Yet bizarrely, she found herself frozen to the spot instead.

He was quite striking with those green eyes that steadily held hers, his silver hair and neatly trimmed beard. Just like the rest of the Parisians, he was dressed handsomely in a dark brown, firmly fastened coat, along whose middle line and turned up collar two diamonds of lighter colour were embroidered. Accompanying this ensemble were black trousers and black slippers that exposed his bare feet and ran together in a fine line of fabric that curled back over the tip of the shoes. Had his looks and his clothes not classed him as exotic, the item he was carrying in his hand surely would have done. It was thin and silver, slightly curved like a dagger, bearing the same snake's head she had previously seen adorning Erik's boat. Yet whether it was a weapon or an accessory she could not tell, only that he was clutching it like someone might their walking cane.

Around her, the whispers began to swell.

_Evil eye._

_The Persian._

She could not make much sense of it, nor could she understand how a man who was clearly eyed with such disdain had been invited to the Christmas festivities. But then the man reached her and it was impossible to draw any more conclusions at all.

"Mademoiselle Daaé ?" he inquired politely.

His voice was surprisingly soft and warm, like a ray of sunshine on a cold winter's day. There was a hint of an accent which confirmed a more exotic background. She wondered if he remembered bumping into her.

"Yes, Monsieur?" she returned just as politely, aware that Meg next to her was barely able to contain her curiosity.

"Khan," he replied softly, "forgive me for interrupting your conversation. I was merely asked to give you this."

And out of one of the pockets of his coat he produced a simple white envelope, not dissimilar to the one she had left behind at the old dressing room a while ago. She accepted it quickly and without question, holding it in her hand like some damning piece of evidence.

Her eyes were still focusing on his, unable to look away from the sadness she encountered there yet again. It really was quite haunting, especially in light of the strength she found there also.

"I do hope you'll continue to enjoy your evening," he spoke again and turned to descend the staircase once more.

He seemed to be very aware of the stir he was causing and determined to minimise it as much as possible and for that she was grateful. There was a part of her that wanted him to stay so she might find out more about him, gain an explanation as to why she felt her grief latching on to his. But, of course, she knew that this wasn't the right place to do so.

"Go on, go on, open it!" Meg urged her quietly, but Christine quickly shook her head.

She couldn't predict the outcome of doing so and it didn't feel safe.

"Not here."

And it appeared she had made the right decision, for out of nowhere Madame Giry swooped to their side, negating the masses as if they did not exist and fixed her with a stern glance.

"Who was that man?"

Christine tried holding her own against that admonishing tone.

"I don't know, Madame," she answered softly and honestly.

"He gave something to you, let me see it!"

She did not raise her voice because she clearly did not wish to cause a scandal, but the whole scene was still embarrassing enough to make her feel publicly humiliated.

"Mother, please," Meg jumped to her aid swiftly if also just as quietly, "it's clearly a suitor. Please don't embarrass her."

Christine could feel her face heat up at the implication, could already hear the whispers that would inevitably follow this event. First Raoul, then this exotic stranger. She'd surely be considered a loose woman.

Madame Giry's mechanical eye screwed itself narrower, but her daughter stared her down defiantly until she turned and walked away. Once she had left, Meg deflated ever so slightly and heaved a deep sigh.

"Let's not have this spoil our evening," she then said, "let's go elsewhere. This is a little too boring in anyway."

Christine didn't know where else they could possibly go, but the scrutiny of the moment was so unbearable that she decided to simply follow without questioning her. The blonde girl navigated the crowded staircase with as much ease as always and in a manner that did nothing to betray her handicap. Together they proceeded past the auditorium and towards the large fly tower. There, to Christine's surprise a whole celebration was taking place as well. It seemed that the stagehands and those of the ensemble less fortunate to return home or to have their parents to celebrate with, were enjoying the festivities.

The large, long catwalks were decorated with sprigs of holly and ivy and even the wings had been adorned with mistletoe strung up by transparent cord. Soft music was floating out of cornucopia-shaped speakers attached to gramophones, successfully encouraging couples to join together on the dancefloor. Some of them were displaying a kind of intimacy that was making her blush. Hands were wandering without inhibition, cupping butts, tracing hips; lips were sliding over skin, prompting delighted giggles and other sounds she'd much rather not dwell on.

Noticing her apprehension, Meg drew her towards a more secluded corner where they both settled down on the floor. While Christine carefully arranged her skirts around her, she set down the envelope next to her.

"Won't you open it now?" Meg probed, her eyes shining radiantly in the light of a nearby Christmas tree.

Once more, Christine found her thoughts wandering towards Erik, though she quickly dismissed his involvement as surely Madame Giry would have known, being frequently employed as his letter-bearer. Then, with an overwhelming sense of guilt that knotted her stomach as much as she knotted her hands, she thought of Raoul though surely her reprimand would not have caused him to employ a stranger.

"No," she decided, shaking her head, "I'll do it once I'm alone."

The disappointment on her friend's face was so obvious that it only increased the guilt she was feeling, and so she was almost relieved when Meg stood up a second later.

"Let's at least open our presents then," she suggested, the smile slowly returning to her face and Christine nodded, happy to be distracted. "You'll stay here and find us some more nibbles and I will go retrieve them."

Meg had persuaded her a week or two ago that exchanging gifts just had to be part of Christmas and so they had set off together into Paris to buy a few items. Their humble wage did not allow them to splurge a great deal but in the end Christine had felt better, knowing that she had found something that would make others happy. Now she hoped that Meg would truly enjoy her present.

Watching the blonde leave, she pushed herself to her feet and cradling the envelope to her chest set about the room to find something edible. The goods on display were of less nicer quality and pickings were sparse but still Christine placed a few slices of bread with pâté onto a plate, followed by a bit of pheasant in gravy that they could share and a couple of roasted chestnuts as dessert.

Her path took her past a group of very noisy men who obviously had much too much to drink. One of them in particular, who appeared to be the oldest, was trying to entertain a flock of young ballet girls with tales that were gruesome enough to make them shriek in delighted horror.

"You there, girl," he pointed at her when he caught her watching, "come and join us. Have you heard the story of the Opera Ghost?"

Christine froze on the spot yet somehow she managed to shake her head.

"A terrible beast indeed. I've seen him several times and lived to tell the tale. One day, he was hiding up in the flies where I work, his eyes gleaming yellow like those of feral cats. He shrank from me with a terrible hiss and a minute later a set piece came crashing down which only narrowly missed me. Oh, but Mademoiselle that isn't all. He likes prying on those full of innocence. His horrible visage hidden behind a mask of pure gold."

"What's so horrible about his face?" One of the girls whispered and Christine willed herself to walk away but couldn't.

"Oh, my dear, if ever you saw him you'd never find sleep again. His skin is yellow and waxen, his eyeballs shrivelling away in deep-sunken sockets. His teeth are pointy and razor sharp, protruding from a mouth that's visibly decaying. Oh and his nose," he paused and pretended to shiver, and to her embarrassment Christine felt herself trembling also, "there are no words to describe it. He is an unfinished prototype, half machine, half man. A hideous eyesore, an insult to a society that's eradicated any such flaws long ago."

The smell of the food on her plate was making her nauseous and finally she got herself to walk away. Shaking, she sank back down on the same old spot on the floor and waited for Meg. Inside, her mind was racing. How could this man possibly have come across Erik? How could he have seen what lay underneath the mask? How could he possibly derive satisfaction from sharing these horrible details without shame or compassion?

She swallowed down her own embarrassment, for her reaction to that face had been similar to that of the ballet girls, and tried calming down while waiting for Meg's return. Eventually, the young girl appeared and sank down by her side, two small packages in her hands.

"Here, go ahead," she said, tossing one of them into her lap, "I know you've been dying to see what it is."

Christine mustered a nervous smile that twitched on her lips and scooted the plate with food closer to Meg before unwrapping her Christmas gift.

Inside, she found what looked like a miniature gun. Chuckling at her confused face, Meg hurried to explain.

"I know you're concerned about the vicomte's New Year's festivities and the thought of sticking out again. This'll help, I can promise you. It'll transform you for one night into an ordinary extraordinary Parisian. I will show you on the evening, it will make more sense then and at least now you won't have an excuse not to go."

Christine sighed heavily but somehow maintained the smile. After all, she could fully understand that Meg wanted to have someone to talk to that evening besides the baron who had invited her. And how could she say no now?

"Go on and open your gift," she said instead and watched as her friend uncovered the little brass locket she had acquired for her.

On its front was the shimmering figure of a ballerina in rhinestones.

"For the best dancer at the Palais Garnier," she added softly, "and it's big enough to contain a picture of your suitor or a lock of his hair."

Meg chuckled in delight and her cheeks turned rosy.

"You are much too kind, Christine Daaé. Now, how about a dance with the best ballerina in the room?"


	26. Broken Faith, 1883

_Chapter 25: Paris_

_1883_

 

A new year. New possibilities.

Beneath the mask his lips curled into a sardonic smile. He'd hardly have noticed it if this all-suffocating feeling he'd been experiencing hadn't driven him above ground. Now he sat at the foot of Apollo's Lyre covered in a cloak that did very little to shield him from the icy wind, while the fireworks erupted into the night sky around him. Down below, in the netherworld, the walls of his house had seemed to close in on him and it was all her fault.

Christine Daaé.

He should have trusted his instincts that had initially compelled him to mock and to scare her. He should have known that she would pose a very serious danger to his life. She was too complete, too brilliant, too innocent to be with someone as hideous as him. Her presence graced every corner of his hideout now. She had changed it forever and awakened a deadly ache in his heart that he'd convinced himself no longer existed. Now all he encountered in the safety of his four walls was silence and loneliness, an ache even more exposed when he attempted to work on his compositions, for her voice filled his head with such beauty that his fingers trembled and he could no longer play.

Hell was placing oneself in a cage without the desire to flee.

Hell was the treacherous feeling of hope in one's chest.

Hell was a love so all-consuming he could hardly remember where he began and she ended.

He could barely say when it had happened, when his interest in her gift had given way to the interest in her person. Oh, but she was so flawed, so very breakable, entirely unfit for the cruel world of Opera. And it was that very flaw that made him care for her even more deeply. He yearned to protect her from all harm until she would learn to spread her wings and fly. And fly she would, there was no doubt about it, not when she already soared above the masses now.

He knew he could never hope to be her suitor. They were separated by their age, life experiences and worlds, but he could hope to become a friend as well as a mentor. Surely, he could find satisfaction in that, knowing that the beautiful voice he heard every night was of his own creation. Surely, in time, that would come to be enough.

God knows, he wouldn't be around for much longer as it was. Undoubtedly, this would be the last turning of the years he'd witness, for he, too, possessed a fatal flaw, one that would spell his end very soon. The Daroga liked to blame it on his own actions, on the many corrections he had undertaken on his body, the by-product of which was slowly poisoning his blood stream now. And then there was the continued use of his opiates which did nothing to alleviate the situation and which Nadir had condemned from the very beginning.

Erik chuckled as the cold wind whipped around him again. His Persian friend would even question him about his being here now after he'd barely recovered from his latest attack. And it was true, he could feel the chill creeping into his bones until it lingered in every part of his body. He wasn't a young man anymore and a snow-covered rooftop truly wasn't the best place to lurk when one was in a fragile state, but when had reason ever stopped him from doing anything?

Christine Daaé.

His thoughts returned to her far too easily even now, but how could they not when every fibre of his being yearned to be reunited with her again? T

oo much time had passed. Already the brief hours between returning her to her world and giving her her last lesson had been too much. If he'd been younger and more impulsive still, he would not have allowed her to leave his domain. But the realisation of his affections had come so quickly that he'd instinctively repelled her. Until there and not another step closer, he had thought.

How wrong he'd been.

But how could he have known that in the hours of her absence his heart would grow to love her even more dearly?

To protect himself he had taught her rigidly and coolly, slipping back into the tutor persona all too effortlessly. Another meeting had been arranged but abandoned when the first attack of many had forced him to rest in bed. His veins seemed filled with fire and screams and in his feverish throes he tried bloodletting to dispel the poison but only succeeded in weakening himself further.

That's how the Persian had found him, pathetic and shivering in bed, the Siamese cat his only guardian. A few hours later and he might have encountered a corpse, not that his general appearance was much dissimilar he reminded himself with a dry chuckle.

In the following weeks, Nadir had looked after him with his usual combination of polite regard and stern reprimands, but when he had failed to make swift progress and grown testy, Nadir had become suspicious. Never particularly supportive of his exploits with the management and – although retired – ever the determined chief of police, he had interrogated him as to his motives. Erik had had no desire to talk about Christine, for he knew that from the minute Nadir heard about her, he'd keep his eagle eye on her and be on the lookout for suspicious activity, but in the end he'd been too desperate to send word to resist. The thought that Christine might be waiting for him to return, that she might think he had abandoned her pained him too much and so, with some reluctance, he gave Nadir the bare outline of their relationship.

Pushing any of his objections aside, he begged him to deliver a letter which would explain the circumstances of his absence and finally the Persian had agreed. Erik knew he ought to be thankful for his support, after all, there were few people prepared to keep him company as much as Nadir had done, but he was frightened he might come to realise just how much he cared for Christine. The last thing he needed was a reminder of how unlikely it was she'd return his affections.

Another week had gone by since the letter had been delivered and the silence he'd received in return frustrated him. On his way to the roof he'd visited the abandoned dressing room, hoping that she might have left a note for him there but the space had been as empty and as untouched as ever. It appeared he'd have to be patient and see if she would show up the following day for their next lesson which he had proposed in his letter.

Around him, the rockets had ceased to illuminate the night sky and the air was as still as it could be on a night such as this. He had never been a man of patience or virtue but the beauty of this pristine evening with the twinkling lights of Paris at his feet made him think of Mauro and the faith he had shown him. Perhaps it wasn't foolish to hope one last time, perhaps this time his prayers would be heard.

And so he turned his attention to the greater deity, to what had been God to his mother, Allah to his friend and a spirit of nature to his mentor.

Humbly, he knelt before Him beneath the blanket of stars and begged to have His blessing. If only He trusted him this one time, he promised to be good, patient and kind. He'd love and care for Christine with all the decency she deserved, he would not hurt or kill anyone. All he needed was one chance to be an ordinary man and he'd grasp it with both hands and never look back.

In response to his plea the quiet was suddenly and harshly broken by the sound of an engine, and slowly, the big round nose of a zeppelin appeared from behind another building. Cursing, Erik sought shelter in the shadow of Apollo's Lyre once more, glowering up at the airship that had dared to interrupt this intimate moment and that, by the looks of it, was set to anchor at this very rooftop.

For another moment, the zeppelin hovered uncertainly in the air and then slowly descended far enough to be secured. The large doors were pushed open and faintly, he could hear voices floating down towards him. Laughter conquered the noise of the engine and then a rope ladder was extended to which two figures were clinging. Carefully, he peered out from behind the statue's grand structure and watched the bodies lowered to the roof. One was that of a man, tall and broad, with blonde hair and strong arms, the other female, small and petite with cascading dark-brown curls who seemed painfully familiar.

He watched them find their footing together, the brunette clinging on to the man as if her life depended on it.

"Have I told you yet how happy you've made me by coming?" the man asked softly.

His voice was warm and kind and utterly sickening to Erik's ears, full of ordinary pleasantness.

"Only every five minutes, Raoul," the woman chuckled and the bashful expression on her face proved even more sickening.

"Well, Little Lotte, as far as I'm concerned it borders on a miracle! Once you make up your stubborn mind you're hardly ever swayed."

"You can thank Meg then," Christine answered and as her hand went up to cup his cheek, Erik very nearly looked away.

It didn't feel right to witness this; it was too big, too personal and still so private that it left no more room for him. That one, innocent touch reminded him of the couple he had inadvertently caught in the church as a boy, it reminded him of Madeleine and Dr Barye and the soft, tender looks that had left no doubt that he wasn't welcome anymore.

His chest constricted painfully and an uncomfortable queasiness began to shift and grow in the pit of his stomach. The face beneath the mask felt warm as if he had been slapped and the sting of which continued to echo through his skin. He knew what was about to happen next but he could not look away.

"I'll thank all the heavens for bringing you back to me," the boy replied passionately but with such honesty that the words did not sound contrived.

And then he claimed her mouth, stole from her what Erik could only still hope for. And yet he did this, too, with such gentle care that he wanted to weep. This was not a reckless act, this was love and he could not contend with it.

The pain was growing so insufferable he thought for an embarrassing moment that he might pass out and fall right in front of their feet but then his body stopped trembling and his anguish transformed into anger.

He would make both of them pay.

Him, for his good looks and good fortune, for he knew him well, had looked into his background as he had done with all the patrons of the Opera.

Raoul Vicomte de Chagny.

Son of an aristocratic family, born into money.

Raoul Vicomte de Chagny.

Survivor, entrepreneur, hero.

He, who was everything Erik could have been, if only he would have had a pretty face.

And her, Christine Daaé.

Temptress, siren. Poisoning his mind with promise and false hope.

How could he have trusted her to ever grow accustomed to his oddness? She was entirely too whole.

He would make them rue the day they had crossed his path!

It was as if he couldn't feel his body anymore, as if all of his thinking was happening outside of it. And so he watched himself watch the couple step away from each other, watched how they dispelled their hot breath into the cold night air, the warmth of their affection surely enough to melt the snow that had settled on the roof. He watched him float back up into the zeppelin like the romantic hero he was cut out to play and watched her rush out of the cold and into the safe arms of the opera house.

Foolish girl, she had no idea that she was being followed.

Her head was clearly in the clouds and there was a spring in her step that made him want to retch. He followed her as closely as her own shadow, watched her stray into the dormitories where she sank down on her bunk bed and touched her hand to her racing heart as if the touch alone could have the power to sooth it. And perhaps it could but, as Erik reflected darkly, it wouldn't be something he'd ever find out.

He watched her lift up her mattress and withdraw something. He did not care. Perhaps if he did he would have seen that it was the pendant he had given her, perhaps he would have noticed the look of heartbreak and confusion that washed over her features.

But she rose to her feet soon enough and headed down towards the chapel which was where he abandoned the damp passageway long enough to grab her. Her brown eyes widened for only second, then she stopped fighting and allowed him to drag her after him down to the netherworld once more.

"You deceptive vixen!" he bellowed, twisting her arm up as he yanked her forward, shocked to discover that it did not look dissimilar to his own one of metal.

But just like her polite affection, it was nothing more than an illusion. A cleverly crafted piece of art created by a paint gun that was all the rage amongst Parisian tourists. Somehow the sight of it only aggravated him further.

"You foolish wench!" he hissed, pulling her forcefully against his chest as they came to a standstill in front of the pitch-black lake.

"Have you forgotten about this face?" He twisted her close enough to look him in the eye. "This is not a game! This is not dress up, you stupid, insolent girl!"

Her pale lips trembled as she struggled to answer, but the sight of them did not soothe his temper. All he could see was how they had kissed the Vicomte's, how they had uttered poisonous words.

As he rowed across the lake her sobs filled the air around them. What a pitiful creature she had become, how wrong he had been about her.

Without another word he hoisted her out of the boat again and locked her in the room he had stupidly reserved for guests, the room that was a tribute to his foolish hopes and desires. And as her muffled sobs continued to permeate the barrier of wood, he sat down at his piano and began to compose the ugliest, most despicable music known to mankind.


	27. Aida, 1883

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and the comment! :)

_Chapter 26: The Netherworld_

_1883_

The music was dreadful. There were no words to describe it. It was pounding through the walls of her prison, for that was what the room had become. There was no harmony to the chords, just disjointed pain, as if he was stripping the piano of its keys one by one. The predominant emotion was anger, a fury so all-consuming and raging one could not escape it. She was certain that any moment now another powerful chord could shatter the house around her and sink them both to the bottom of the lake.

The main emotion coursing through her was fear, fear and confusion. She did not understand what she had done to warrant such terrible hatred. Granted, she had read his letter only just that day, had forgotten about it in midst of the holiday madness and her nervousness about the celebrations with Raoul but she had not missed the lesson, she would have appeared. Similarly, she understood that the painted metallic arm Meg had given her for Christmas would have incensed him. Unlike Raoul, whose stable standing in society and pleasant nature enabled him to see the humour in it, Erik felt ridiculed that she would pretend to have suffered a fate he could not alter.

But that wasn't what had sparked this…tantrum. No, he had only noticed her arm halfway down the passageway.

And just like that her fear subsided and gave way to anger that rivalled Erik's. The momentum of the emotion carried her towards the door he had pushed her through but pushing down the handle she found it locked. The realisation only fanned the flames of her ire and without thoughts of propriety, she pushed herself against the wood time and time again. Her body reverberated with the impact but she kept going until her shoulder started to ache. After a while, the pain grew so unbearable that she was tempted to stop, but then she noticed that the dreadful music had subsided and the realisation gave her such satisfaction, such feeling of triumph that she pushed herself to continue.

The wood creaked and groaned under the force of her body, a sound that was occasionally interrupted by rapidly approaching footsteps. She braced herself for the confrontation and threw herself against the door one last time. It flew open easily and her body collided with his and for a second he staggered back and against the railing of the balcony. She heard him grunt upon impact before both his metallic and his ordinary arm automatically wrapped themselves around her to catch her.

The sudden closeness caught both of them off-guard. And the room that had been shaking a moment ago with the sound of terrible music fell abruptly silent.

Erik's radiant amber eyes were searching her face for answers, as if he needed help understanding the situation, as if he needed her to tell him what would happen next. But she wasn't in the mood to fill that role.

"How dare you?" she questioned.

Her voice had been entirely transformed. No longer sweet and calm it was now a raging storm of emotion.

"How dare you treat me like this?"

He had clearly not expected to be addressed in such fashion, for he remained speechless and wide-eyed.

"I have done nothing to warrant this. You cannot simply abduct me when you see fit. We had a lesson arranged for tomorrow and there is nothing I've done that would give the indication that I wouldn't be there. Now if you think there's a reason for your anger, do tell me, but at any rate I'd appreciate an apology for the horrible names you've called me. That truly is not the mark of a gentleman."

She had never taken this tone with a man and suddenly became aware just how insolent such behaviour had to appear. Still, she tilted her chin up proudly and challenged him to answer. The twisted lips did not move, but his amber eyes slid over her features while he seemed to decide what to make of this new, confrontational nature.

At last they landed on her arm that bore the clear traces of his temper and sighed. "You've hurt yourself, foolish child. Don't just stand there, we must tend to it."

His remark stunned her and while he took her by the hand and led her downstairs into his sitting room, she pondered if he truly did not realise that he was responsible or if he refused to accept the truth. She couldn't say which one would be more shocking.

Without offering so much as another word, he pushed her down on an armchair before he disappeared deeper into the house.

The sudden silence was making her head swim and the pain in her shoulder seemed to fan out across the rest of her body. Tiredly, she let her eyes slip across the room again, wondering how not very long ago she could have actually feared not seeing it again. The curiosity and strange respect she had somehow developed for Erik had helped her gloss over the sharper edges of his personality. One almost had to admire how skilled he was at twisting one's emotions. She wondered if he ever grew tired of his rapidly changing temper.

She blinked and gradually became aware that she was being watched by a pair of pale blue eyes. The Siamese cat had comfortably nestled herself into a cushion on the nearby sofa, her head resting on her paw, her impenetrable gaze fixed on Christine. She seemed to inquire what all the fuss was about. After all, Christine was also perched on a comfortable chair at the perfect distance to the crackling flames of the fireplace. What could she possibly complain about? Oh, to be a cat.

Then Ayesha's ears twitched and her eyes slowly drifted shut, a clear sign that Erik was returning and so Christine straightened herself again in an attempt to look ready for battle. In the minutes of his absence he seemed to have transformed entirely, walking in measured, majestic steps, his ordinary hand stooping down to scratch the cat behind the ears.

Then he sank down before her. With a cloth that was moist and warm he began wordlessly scrubbing away at her arm, clearing it of the offending paint before moving on to tend to the bruises and abrasions. Despite administering all of it with his metal hand, he was surprisingly gentle and skilled, but this level of attention and care only served to frustrate her further. Now was not the time to appreciate his kindness. Now was the time to hold on to her anger to ensure that Erik wouldn't just get away with his behaviour.

"There," he hummed softly after a moment or two, "that's much more like yourself now, isn't it?"

She didn't answer but stared down at her arm that looked ordinary once more if also somewhat red from the pressure of the cloth. She didn't know what to say to that.

"Now, it's the middle of the night and you are surely tired. I'd like you to go to your room and rest as we have a busy couple of days ahead of us."

That particular announcement made her feel rather unwell. How long did he mean to keep her here this time?

"I don't understand," she whispered anxiously, "what are you planning?"

She sought out his amber eyes in hopes of finding some answers there, but as if in response to her question the warm sheen vanished and they grew more guarded.

"Now wouldn't that be boringly predictable if you knew?" he asked, tilting his head to study her, all the while a strange smile played on his lips.

This calm tone coupled with the eerie smile was quite unnerving and Christine suddenly found herself reminded of a mouse in the claws of an oversized cat. How unbelievably unpredictable he could be!

She breathed deep into her belly and then found his eyes again. "You have taken me against my will, I can't believe it's surprising that I'd want to know."

Her sharp reminder seemed to make the mirth in his eyes disappear anew and his Adam's apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed.

"You will stay here until I am satisfied that you can celebrate successes in the role of Aida."

The announcement was so unlike anything she had expected that she leaned back and blinked.

"Pardon?"

"Surely you must know that as your teacher your success is most dear to me."

"But…Aida isn't part of this season," she somehow managed to remark incredulously.

Erik only drew up his shoulders as if that fact did not affect him in the slightest.

"Soon it will be," he replied calmly; perhaps the continued look of disbelief on her face compelled him to do so. "And for that you must be prepared."

Christine was struggling to process this information, was caught somewhere between pride that he would think her capable of carrying such great a role and infuriated that he had not considered asking her if she felt confident enough to do so. Perhaps above all, she felt used, treated like an object that could be bent to his satisfaction.

"I see," she hummed quietly, "then I better do as you say, maestro."

This time she did not pause to search for answers in his eyes but simply rose to her feet. She looked down at the cat that was still peacefully snoozing on the sofa. How she continued to envy its peace and tranquillity.

She ascended the spiral staircase with her shoulders squared and her head held high. Let Erik make of that whatever he wanted. The door she had tried to break with the force of her body was now pushed shut gently and with a heavy sigh she sank down on the luxurious sheets of the four-poster bed. She stoically refused to change out of her clothes this time and only kicked off her shoes. She did not want to be clad in anything Erik had bought for her and yearned to cling on to the faint fragrance of champagne and cigars that reminded her of Raoul's zeppelin.

Dear old Raoul.

It might as well have been a lifetime ago that she had been floating with him through the dark night sky of Paris.

The party had been what the Parisian upper classes would, no doubt, have deemed charming. There were just enough people to fill the zeppelin with interesting conversation, above which soft music floated. Some guests had used the opportunity to dance together, behaving far more appropriately than the ones she had observed at the Palais Garnier. Christine had enjoyed hearing about Raoul's business. She'd loved witnessing the respect and amazement with which Raoul was viewed by the friends he'd surrounded himself with. For a man who had broken out of the constraints of a very rigid family such support was undoubtedly refreshing. From Christine's point of view it was perfectly enviable but also understandable. Raoul had provided hope for a great many people and she had no doubt that he was a fair and kind employer and colleague.

Halfway through the evening they had sneaked away together, as far as one could sneak given the fact they were floating around in a glorified tin can. But at least they had withdrawn to one corner on the upper level where his bed was located. He had teased her about the implications of the scene should they be caught and she had been too relieved to see that he did not hold a grudge to tell him off.

Then the evening had dissolved into sweet childhood reminiscences until someone had shouted up to them that it was almost midnight at which point Raoul had been forced to clamber back down to navigate the airship into the perfect position to view the fireworks lighting up the Eiffel Tower.

What a beautiful sight it had been! How easy it was to adjust to life in the air despite the doubts she'd first had.

There'd been more food and more drink though she had resisted the latter at that point and then one by one the crowd had dispelled, leaving her almost the last person to be dropped off.

Here, Christine paused and cradled her face in her hands. She didn't dare ponder what had happened next. Not here, not in Erik's realm. It felt like treachery to remember the softness of the kiss or the fire it had ignited in her belly. It felt even more frightening to try and understand why she felt as if she was betraying him. But nonetheless, she was all too aware how much she longed for the safe predictability of Raoul once more. The warmth of his embrace, the knowledge that he would never dare spring anything on her that he knew might make her uncomfortable.

A small hiccup broke forth as the first tears sprang to her eyes. She knew that she was on the brink of some dreadful realisation, a realisation that had the potential to tilt her entire world upside down but she didn't dare face it yet. Not that this decision stopped her from feeling the desperation that lay ahead. Perhaps the best she could do was sleep and so she lifted the duvet with her feet and slipped under it. She curled up just as she was, still clad in cloak and dress, the redness of her raw arm burning like a freshly-opened wound.

* * *

The next morning she awoke to a gentle knock on the door. Her head felt so clouded with sleep still that it took her quite a while to realise where she was.

When awareness dawned at last, she sat up sharply in bed. A second knock made her tremble. She wasn't at all prepared for this.

"Christine?" he called.

His voice sounded much too soft given the circumstances. She tried to calm her racing heart in vain and swung her legs over the side of the bed where she encountered her shoes which she hurriedly put on.

When she opened the door, Erik loomed before her, tall and confident once more. In stark contrast to her dishevelled appearance, he looked nearly impeccable. He was clad in his usual black trousers and black ankle boots but had also donned a long black coat that very nearly touched the floor. It was buttoned closed firmly across his chest then flared open across his lower body. Behind the turned up collar she could just make out the hint of a white shirt and an elegant, caramel-coloured cravat. His simple black mask was in keeping with the rest of the ensemble and his hair was, as always, neatly slicked back.

She doubted he had any idea just how handsome he looked and she really did not wish to dwell on it any longer than necessary either.

"Breakfast awaits downstairs," he announced with a grand sweeping gesture and she nodded.

"I shall wash up first, maestro," she replied coolly and squeezed herself past him.

She couldn't see his reaction but hoped her response would irk him somewhat at least. This was something she certainly would not alter currently. If he wanted a mindless prodigy who did his bidding at all times, he should have her.

This time she did not bother with the shower but only discarded her dress long enough to wash herself at the nearby sink. Remembering that the beautiful ornamental brush was still in her bedroom, she glowered at the pale reflection in the mirror, at the tangled mess of curls on the top of her head and strode back into the living room. Her father had occasionally but always affectionately called her his headstrong little girl, but other than that Christine had never been known for her temper. It wasn't particularly becoming in a young lady, but perhaps in extraordinary circumstances it would prove to be a useful tool.

Erik eyed her with some curiosity as she sank down on the sofa and poured herself a cup of tea. He did not speak and eventually busied himself arranging a pile of sheet music. When she looked up from her breakfast, she could watch his long slender fingers flick through the pages, putting them in order swiftly and efficiently. The sight made her hurriedly avert her eyes lest he catch her, but he seemed so engrossed in his task that nothing could have deterred him. And so it was long after she had finished her meal that he finally directed his attention to her and invited her to take her position near the piano. He, himself, took a seat on the little bench and smoothed out the first piece of sheet music.

"We shall start with Aida's aria in the first act, 'Ritorna Vincitor'."

Once again, he did not wait to see if she had anything to say and offered instead the initial chords that would help settle her into the melody. Christine was familiar with "Aida", of course, any aspiring opera singer worth their salt would have heard about the success it celebrated in Cairo before moving on to take Milan and the rest of Italy by storm. She had also heard everything about the tragic love story it entailed but, sadly, her knowledge of the music was limited.

There were pieces here and there that her father had picked up from the friends in his artistic circle and had been more than happy to recite for her, but to attend an actual performance there simply hadn't been the money.

"Could you play it for me fully first?" she inquired tentatively. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it."

The look of surprise lingered only momentarily in his golden eyes before he nodded and lifted his mechanical hand to the keys as well to play through the entire aria. A shiver ran down her spine when his magnificent voice began to fill the room and it didn't take her long to see why the opera had been such a success.

"Thank you," she remarked with a voice that she wished to sound unaffected, "from the beginning."

She took on the stance that he had taught her long ago, paying close attention to hold her head high and breathe deep into her belly.

Still, the first run-through was a tentative one as her voice tried to familiarise itself with the various notes. Although Erik was there to accompany her and to help guide her with his own voice conquering the majority of the score was challenging. She was reading the words over his shoulder from the sheet music and so she knew that it was only natural that the piece would initially sound wooden until she could recite it from memory.

But the melody in itself was difficult, clambering high and low and forcing her time and time again to hold notes securely and with great strength for extended periods of time. The ending of the piece, on the other hand, was much easier to learn. The melody softened, asking her to use much of the upper range of her register in a desperate, heart-felt plea.

By the time they'd been practising for hours and finally addressed that part she noticed Erik shivering, the observation of which brought her immense satisfaction. He had been exacting and strict before, mercilessly picking everything apart that had not pleased him, but here he froze. Not physically, of course, for his fingers still effortlessly found the keys but she saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight tilt of the head as if he was about to lose himself and then, as the final note faded, she heard the greatest compliment, an almost inaudible sigh of content that rushed from between his lips.

"Not entirely bad," he spoke at last and without waiting for his consent, she walked back to the sofa to fill her cup with cold tea which she drank to soothe her sore throat.

"Do you understand what Aida is saying?"

She licked her lips and set the teacup down again.

"Partially," she replied, "perhaps I'd understand more if I studied it calmly. As it was, I was too busy trying to keep up with the melody to focus."

"The sacred names of my father and my lover, Neither of which I can call upon. I am confused for each one, I am trembling I cry, I pray. But my prayer changes to cursing. Crime is the fault of my tears and sighs. In the dark night, my mind is lost. And I would die in this cruel world. Gods, have pity on my suffering! There is no hope for my sorrow. Fatal love, tremendous love. Break my heart and let me die!"

He recited it all first in fluent Italian, the vowels warm, the consonants sharp and quick, rolling off his tongue. Then he repeated it to her in French so that she may grasp the meaning fully. It still sounded beautiful, but she found that she preferred it in Italian.

"That is the part at the very end," he explained while rising from the piano.

His eyes were observing her carefully as if he was waiting for something in particular.

"It's beautiful," she remarked, offering a tentative smile in return, "I like it much more than the beginning."

"Truly?" he hummed. "Aida's despair affects you more than her betrayal?"

Once more he recited the words for her, words that told of Aida's struggle between the love for her father and her own people and the newly ignited love for her enemy, an Egyptian warrior named Radames. She did not understand what precisely he was insinuating but was incensed that he still held fast at a betrayal she had no idea she had committed.

"As I was saying," she spoke firmly and without trying to hide her anger, "my grasp of the language wasn't good enough to understand precisely what was happening. It was merely the change of the music in the last part that moved me, which made singing it easier."

"I see," he hummed, but his eyes remained cold.

With all the patience and calm she could muster beneath his unnerving gaze, she poured herself another cup of tea and with it in hand proceeded up the spiral staircase once more.

"I presume our lessons are finished for today," she announced, "and so I thank you for your time, maestro. I'd appreciate it if you'd be so kind as to alert me when dinner is ready."

And she disappeared into her room once more, closing the door behind her.


	28. Opera Talk, 1883

_Chapter 27: The In-Between_

_1883_

 

His brain was restless, thick and fat with unprocessed thoughts. He could feel it throbbing against his skull, keeping him awake even when exhaustion should have claimed him. He'd abandoned his bed a long time ago and taken to pacing down in the sitting room instead. At times he was cursing her for the infuriating game she had apparently chosen to play. Calling him maestro, treating him with cool courtesy. The nerve of the girl! At other times he cursed himself for bringing her here without a plan. He should have known that he'd be unable to sleep with her under the same roof.

His heart was beating in her chest, after all, bruised and broken but still functional. She didn't seem to know and perhaps for now that was his only blessing. He hoped it'd award him the time to fix matters, to treat her with kindness that would annihilate the wrath she'd witnessed, to court her here in his world so that she might come to see.

A groan of agony wrenched itself loose and he sank down on the carpeted floor, his face in his hands. Why did he have to love her so?

He'd never been filled with such foolish notions before. They were ludicrous and dangerous, paralysing his mind and making him susceptible to all kinds of reckless actions.

He only just heard the upstairs door creaking open and jerked upright to observe Christine as she hesitantly emerged. He was grateful for the brief warning, for it enabled him to look far less pathetic, but he remained aware, nonetheless, that he was kneeling on the ground only in his shirtsleeves. Whatever would she make of him like this?

Their silent eye contact continued for quite some time while he tried to appease the beast that was roaring in his chest. Whenever she watched him like this – however infrequent such an occasion was – he felt himself grow and change underneath her gaze. For her, he wanted to stand taller, square his shoulders so that he looked broader and more protective. If only she gave him the chance, how different he might be.

"Maestro," she at last greeted him coolly and he immediately felt himself deflate. How quickly he was growing to loathe that name. "I was hoping I might take my breakfast early."

He narrowed his eyes and watched her as she descended the spiral staircase. She was still carrying herself with that air of arrogance, her chin tilted high, her gown following her in a regal train down the stairs. She hadn't changed garments since he had taken her and her stubbornness both amused and annoyed him.

"An excellent idea," he praised softly, his tone not quite genuine, "I shall have it ready once you have tended to yourself."

He rose smoothly to his feet despite the ache that resided in his bones and walked over to the little compartment in the wall. He waited there until he heard her footsteps fading towards the bathroom and then opened it to reveal the food he had stashed away there. Most of the time he stole from the conservatoire. After all, they had plenty of food to spare what with some of the girls refusing to eat more than a few morsels. Lately, however, he hadn't been able to make the trip up and so Nadir had provided him with food from the market. The poor daroga thirsted for a task, really, something to keep him occupied. Surely he hadn't minded the additional journey.

He smirked and lifted out the tray and then busied himself setting it all up on the table for Christine. It was strange how when she was around he didn't pay much attention to the illness of his heart anymore. Not two days ago on the roof of the Palais Garnier he could have sworn to feel it decaying in his chest, due to give out at any moment. Now, in Christine's company, he could feel it too, young and alive, fluttering in his chest like a damnable traitor.

He took a seat on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair to smooth it. The sleeves of his shirt he patiently rolled up, exposing his slender pale arm with the pronounced blue veins and needle marks and the full length bronze arm with all its wheels and pockets. He heard Christine although she didn't speak and listened to her climb the stairs once more. His anger stirred softly but somehow he managed to subdue it and a little while later she emerged again, carefully padding down the stairs until she sank down next to him.

Quietly, she helped herself to the tea he had brewed a short while ago and to a couple of pastries that had not yet gone stale. It was dreadfully difficult preserving food down here where it was damp, but it wasn't something that couldn't be fixed with the right invention, and if Erik was one thing it was inventive.

He watched her chew her food carefully, clearly struggling with the prolonged silence as propriety would dictate her to engage him in polite conversation. He was positively gleeful to notice that she had crumbled and clad herself in one of the dresses he had acquired for her. After all, there was only so long one could spend wearing the same old garment. The dress she had chosen was in keeping with the current Parisian couture with a woollen under layer of a soft, light-blue colour and a brown leather bodice that rested on top. Ordinarily, the bodice would have been a corset and the skirt would have only extended to her thighs, but he had made alterations so that the dress was longer to preserve her modesty and the bodice merely gave the illusion of a corset. He couldn't possibly expect her to sing while wearing such a contraption. La Carlotta did it, of course, but then he knew precisely what cheap trick she used to magnify her voice. She would never be required to take a full breath.

"When you are finished, join me at the piano and we will continue where we left yesterday. Perhaps with some luck we will be able to address the next song already."

And so one day slipped fluently into the next as they conquered the grand score of Aida together. Progress didn't always come easily and a few times he lost his temper, knowing all too well just how much better she could become. But at night the beauty of her voice soothed his heart which was still smarting from the cruel indifference with which she continued to treat him. Perhaps it was time to change his tactic.

"I expect you to rest today," he told her one morning when she had joined him in the sitting room, the exhaustion of the rehearsal process written all too plainly on her face. "I have some other matters to attend to, but I trust you will find everything here that you might require in my absence. Upon my return, there will be a surprise for you."

It amused him greatly to watch her struggle to suppress the excitement that came so naturally to her. In truth, it was one of his favourite attributes. Yes, she was strong and calm and sometimes stubborn. She was kind and affectionate and generous, but she had a childlike sense of excitement that endeared her to him in particular. Perhaps because he operated on a similar level. He was, after all, a master of illusion, an accomplished magician. To have someone truly amazed by this was not only refreshing, it was also of utmost importance as it posed the only way to win her heart. The Vicomte had his good looks and his charms, no doubt, but he could not make her eyes light up with honest amazement like Erik could.

Still, he was surprised that Christine took his instructions so dutifully, retrieved cloak and hat and set about the strenuous journey to the world outside his sphere. He emerged eventually from the column in box five and positioned a thick pamphlet of sheet music, set and costume sketches and other relevant documents on the armchair of red upholstery. It wouldn't be long before Madame Giry found it there and he trusted her still to read the little card attached to it and follow his instructions.

Then, he disappeared through the thin doorway back into the column and set off towards another part of the building. He had one clear destination in mind: the manager's office, although that did not stop him from pausing occasionally to listen to the ongoing gossip. A man shunned by society could never compile enough information that might one day come to work in his favour.

Though today there was nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing he hadn't anticipated. Talk of Christine's disappearance was rife in the whole building. The ensemble girls were debating which one of her two suitors she could have run off with. He listened to them with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Such silly girls, happy to tarnish somebody's image with ridiculous talk, how easily they were entertained! Yet the thought that the Persian might be viewed as one of Christine's suitors was absurd enough to make him chuckle. He was old enough to be her father!

Still shaking his head, he walked a few more paces until an entirely too familiar voice caught his attention. Joseph Buquet was at it again. He never had been able to resist an opportunity to share his preposterous tales. At times, Erik had found them amusing as his threats were much more effective with a side-kick spreading rumours that exaggerated his power and horrific appearance. But now he was beginning to think that perhaps he had given the man too much liberty and if he wasn't careful, he might just have to make him pay. His metal fingers twitched softly as he contemplated wrapping them around the other man's bloated neck, but then he reminded himself that he had left Christine to her own devices and hurriedly proceeded towards the managers' office.

He had constructed the passageway in such fashion that he could circle the entire office and still be hidden behind a panel of stone. Here and there, thin tubes fed through the cracks and ended up in binoculars which awarded him a clear view of everything that was going on.

The managers were currently situated at either end of the large space, both of them engrossed in this day's papers. After a moment of silent reading, Monsieur Richard set his copy aside and picked up a little hand mirror through which he studied his set of twinkling, golden teeth.

"Do you think La Carlotta will hold her position throughout the following performances?" Moncharmin asked, his goggles and curly grey hair just about peaking over the top of his newspaper.

"You still believe her to be hysterical then?" Richard questioned in return.

"Well, my dear man, what other reason could there be? She got frightened when her voice failed her and made up an excuse as to why she could not perform on opening night."

Monsieur Richard stretched his lips and gawked at his teeth from a different angle.

"Yes, I must say it is more plausible than an abduction by a ghost. Though if Signor Piangi is to be believed, it was more than a ghost that took her."

"Why, of course, he would say that. The man was part of her plot to make it look more convincing." Moncharmin cast his paper aside now too and looked positively smug. "She'll be back. You saw how outraged she was when she heard that Mademoiselle Daaé had been used as her understudy."

"Still, I'd prefer to have someone we can actually rely on," Richard mused pensively, "as it stands we have two hysterical women who keep disappearing and that just won't do for business."

"Yes," Moncharmin agreed, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, "the Vicomte was quite incensed this morning."

"Foolish man," Richard replied, laughing so hard that his belly bobbed up and down, "surely he should know not to get invested in a chorus girl. Loose girls and gold-diggers, all of them."

Behind the panel of stone, Erik's eyes narrowed into slits.

"Don't I know it? Have you heard about the Giry girl and the baron?"

"You'd do wisely, Messieurs, to keep your noses out of other people's personal business!" Erik boomed, projecting his voice into the centre of the room so that it reached both managers like a slap in the face. "Especially since your own business endeavour is turning out to be such an abysmal affair."

He would have laughed at the panicked looks the two men exchanged, had he not been so furious at what they'd been previously discussing.

"But fear not," he continued, dropping his voice to its silkier tones, "I have just the solution for you."

Both managers now looked around the room expectantly not daring to breathe so much as a word.

"Aida, Verdi's great triumph will be the next piece of the season. Mademoiselle Daaé _will_ perform the title role, lest you wish for a great misfortune to befall everyone."

"Who- Who are you?" Monsieur Richard finally managed to question, his big chest puffed out like a shield. "How dare you threaten us?"

"Oh, Messieurs," Erik replied, chuckling softly and eerily, "we all know who I am. Just as we know that you'll do exactly as I say. Set pieces and backdrops aren't the only things that can come crashing down."

The chandelier, for example; he'd never liked that gaudy thing. He'd always hoped to get rid of it in a much more dignified manner, but if circumstances forced his hand?

"Madame Giry will be with you shortly," he continued when the two managers appeared too stunned to speak once more, "she will present you with the score as well as my suggestions for cast and crew. It is paramount that this production will be a triumph! And it will be, provided you follow my instructions."

Ordinarily, he would have stayed just a little while longer to watch the blank expressions on their faces grow into outrage or panic. Ordinarily, such spectacle would amuse him greatly. But today he was all too aware of the woman waiting for him at his house, and so he turned around without a second glance and pushed back through the pitch-black corridor. Thankfully, he could solely rely on his eyes to see without the aid of a lantern.

He had almost reached the back of the opera house when a painfully familiar voice caused him to pause.

"I know you know more than you are letting on, Mademoiselle Giry!"

Yes, undoubtedly the voice of the Vicomte. Oh how he wished he could see through the thick layer of stone and marble that separated them to observe his anxious posture, his self-righteous anger.

"Please, Monsieur, there truly is no need to be afraid," the young Giry responded confidently and surprised, Erik stepped closer to the barrier and rested his odd hands against it. "Christine is quite safe and I am certain she will return soon."

"But where did she go?" the bold man practically thundered. "If I have offended her she must give me the chance to rectify my error."

The impertinence of the boy! It quite clearly betrayed his youth. In his chest, Erik's heart was constricting uncomfortably. A reminder, perhaps, of their age discrepancy or perhaps simply one of his failing health. He couldn't say with certainty but knew that he would rather have liked to wrap his hands around that perfect neck.

"Oh please, Monsieur," Meg whispered and he could picture her reaching out to squeeze his hands, "Christine would never be cross with you. She's merely otherwise engaged."

"A suitor?" the Vicomte cried in outrage, but the blonde only giggled.

"No, Monsieur. Her teacher. The Angel of Music took her, the Opera Ghost. You must trust me that she is safe."

What a good child she was. How devotedly she believed in him and repaid the kindness that she had received. Whatever pain he had felt a moment ago was obliterated by a rush of joy.

Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, he thought victoriously, Christine is with Erik and you shan't have her ever again!


	29. The Illuminated Cavern, 1883

_Chapter 28: The Netherworld_

_1883_

 

She waited and waited and waited. Time without Erik seemed immeasurably long and her response to this was varied. At first she tried her hand at logical reasoning: She was at a place foreign to her still, she had been taken there against her will, she did not know how many liberties she was entitled to. And when that strategy failed her, she tried her hand at self-deprecating remarks in order to rouse some kind of fighting spirit: What kind of a woman was she if she couldn't entertain herself without a man? Was she really that frightened that she'd sit here cowering on the sofa until his return? That tactic didn't exactly help make her feel braver, but it at least pushed her into motion.

Listening out carefully for his footsteps, she strolled out of the sitting room and into the curious chamber that resided at the back of the house near the bathroom. This was where she had caught her first glimpse of Ayesha, as well as of a handful of objects that had ignited her curiosity. Erik had never told her that the room was off-limits and she needed to find an explanation as to some of the mysteries in his life, both of which were excellent reasons to proceed, if also with caution.

The warm cherry wood of the door gave way beneath the gentle pressure of her fingertips and granted her entrance into a room that – unlike the others – did not appear to be constantly illuminated. The dark was so unfamiliar to her eyes that she instantly felt trapped and vulnerable, searching the walls and surfaces in desperate search for a lamp or a lantern. She could not give words to the fear that had suddenly erupted in her chest, but it was certainly existential. It was as if in the dark, the walls that surrounded her grew damper and narrower, as if the entire room became a maze she could not escape from.

To her then it was akin to a miracle when her trembling fingertips finally encountered a little button which they frantically pressed and which – after a terrible moment of silence – produced the light she had so been craving. When her eyes finally adjusted to her surroundings again, she realised what a weird contraption the lamp was she had just made use of. The button she had pressed was fitted on a solid base of round black metal that – when trying to lift – was terribly heavy and almost immovable from the desk it was perching on. From there on pipes wound their way up in all different directions like the hands of an Indian deity. Two of the pipes ended in round dials though what they could measure or indicate Christine could not say, the other two ended in thin bulbs fenced off by a grid of wires that made her wonder about the safety of the whole creation. The bulbs buzzed faintly from time to time which gave even more cause for concern but she could not deny that the bright light they cast was perfect to see clearly whatever one might be working on at the bench. For that was what the piece leaning against the wall appeared to be, a workbench with all the tools, fixings and fasteners one might need to craft new inventions.

The wood of the bench bore traces of use, grooves that ran deep like scars and others that suggested which object had been resting on it the most. Above it, a small rack was mounted on the wall, holding what looked like the limbs of objects that still needed assembling. It truly was a peculiar place – though she almost chided herself at her frequently renewed surprise – but one, just like the little pavilion containing the piano, that felt safe and human. She could picture him there perfectly just in his shirtsleeves, slaving away on something that had sparked his imagination. She could picture finding him there in the small hours of the morning, his shoulders tense and his back aching but still stubbornly committed to his project; she could picture herself wrapping a blanket around those tense shoulders or pressing a kiss to the still neat strands of slicked back black hair.

When she realised the path her mind had taken, she quickly shook her head and forced herself to pay closer attention to the room she was in yet again. There were pistols there, too, though she doubted that they merely contained paint like the one that Meg had given her for Christmas. Each one of them was immaculately crafted and full of intricate detail so that they appeared much more like ornaments than actual weapons. And in all honesty, she could not really picture him wielding a gun either.

Mounted on the following wall were shelves stuffed with folders and pamphlets. Curious as to what they might contain, she tugged out a couple of them and set them down on the workbench. It didn't take long before she encountered a sketch of the scorpion music box that had first brought her to Erik. More than that, she encountered drawings of landscapes that ranged from the ragged peaks of the Alps to green glistening caves and lakes and exotic stretches of desert.

Was there an end to his talents?

Carefully, she compiled all the sheets again and pushed them back into the folder before opening the next. It was filled with handwritten instructions in a language she did not understand, but if the sketches next to them were any indication, they were recipes to create medicines and draughts. The following pages baffled her mind even more so. Granted, they were written in French but the text was so specific for medical procedures that she still had difficulty following it.

Carefully, she closed the folder again and when returning it, discovered a secret compartment that contained a variety of silver organs as well as a curved object that resembled the one she'd seen the Persian carry on the night of the Christmas ball. She held it gingerly in the palm of her hand and traced its shiny, smooth edges with the pad of her left index finger. It was definitely too blunt to be a weapon, but she couldn't find anything else either that hinted at a possible other use. There was a button in the middle but pressing it produced absolutely nothing and so she was forced to return it without having found any explanations.

There was one more folder left but before she pulled it out, she stepped to the door to listen out for any sounds that would indicate Erik's return. All she could hear, however, was the faint ticking of the giant clock and so she followed her curiosity and explored the remaining folder as well. It shouldn't have been a surprise to find a sketch of her own face there, because somewhere she did still know that his interest in her extended past the platonic. But looking at it now produced a mixture of pleasure and discomfort in the pit of her stomach. Not even in a mirror had she noticed so many small details in her own face. But Erik had captured everything, every eyelash, every laughter and every frown line. He had committed her unruly curls to paper and done so with such vividness that she almost felt capable of reaching out and wrapping one around her finger. Every single feature looked flattering and beautiful and she was astounded to see how highly he thought of her. Surely he must have noticed that her nose was ever so slightly too large, that her complexion was too pale.

The longer she stared at it, the more she could feel the heat rise to her cheeks, a sensation that became so unbearable that after a short while she hurriedly crammed the paper back into the folder. There were more drawings, of course, but she made sure not to pay them much attention and so she quickly flipped through sheet after sheet until something completely different caught her interest.

Granted, it was a drawing of a woman as well but the entire structure – whether face or body – was much more mechanical and much less human. Undoubtedly, she was still of almost unearthly beauty, with long, flowing braids and open silver eyes. Christine could only assume that it had to be a mythical figure but with no notes scribbled next to it there was nothing more to do than put it back into the folder.

And not a second too late, for she suddenly heard firm footsteps in the distance. Hurriedly, she stuffed the folder back into its place, biting her lip against a curse as the back of the folder collided with something small that came crashing to the floor. She, too, was on the floor like a flash, crouching down to desperately fish for the object.

Threateningly, the footsteps drew closer and closer and when her fingers finally closed around the item, he was already in the doorway.

"Christine?"

He sounded confused, she thought, not angry. Not yet.

"Forgive me," she whispered, "I grew bored and I started taking a look around."

His twisted lips were struggling to form a thin line of disapproval.

Guiltily, she unfurled her fingers and showed the object she had collected as well. "It fell, I'm so sorry, Erik. I was out of line."

Now there was definitely anger in his eyes, visibly mostly because their golden radiance disappeared. It left her shivering and cold, as if suddenly trapped in shadow on a hot summer's day. He used his mechanical hand to snatch the little circle of wood away, then held it almost gingerly to study it. In comparison to everything else she had encountered it looked almost simplistic, with its clumsy carvings of what was surely meant to be a majestic bird.

"Did you make this when you were younger?" she asked bravely, hoping it would diffuse his anger and somehow it seemed to work, for he suddenly chuckled.

"Me? No." He shook his head. "I wrote music and…experimented."

She nearly breathed a sigh of relief when she noticed the tension in his shoulders dwindling. Now he looked shy and almost bashful, like a young boy presenting his achievements. But the change only lasted a little while longer and then sadness crept into his eyes.

"It's a Huma," he finally spoke softly, the tone of his voice so tender that she was compelled to step closer, "a bird of paradise from the ancient Persian fables."

Silently he traced the lines of the medallion with the index finger of his ordinary hand while Christine stood and watched, not thinking it wise to interrupt.

"Legend says that it spends its entire life in flight and cannot be seen through human eyes except by those who have caught a glimpse of paradise."

He blinked and she could see a fragile bead of water clinging to his artificial lashes.

"It was a gift, presented to me by a young boy named Reza as a thank you for helping him fly. You see, coming face to face with the Huma signifies eternal happiness."

His voice cracked, broke in two as if the magnitude of the gesture, perhaps of the memory itself, was too much to bear. What could have happened to evoke such sadness, she wondered, the grief reminding her suddenly of the haunting jade eyes of the Persian. And who knew? Perhaps there was a connection between all of them.

Still, she did not think it wise to press for more details, not when the matter clearly caused him such pain and so she gently slipped her hand into his mechanical one and squeezed the fingers as firmly as she could.

"You said you had a surprise for me?"

She hoped he didn't think her rude or selfish but that he might understand her desire to distract him. Nonetheless, it took an eternity before he seemed to return to her.

Where did he go when he disappeared like that without ever leaving the room? What dark thoughts cornered him?

"Yes," he answered slowly, "there was something I wanted to show you."

He quickly slipped past her and placed the medallion back into its compartment, before reaching for her hand and guiding her through the sitting room and onto the dock. At the sight of the boat with the serpentine head, her heart began to race as she wondered whether he was about to release her or take her somewhere above ground at least, and it was with some effort that she managed to stop her tongue from giving words to those treacherous thoughts.

"You have expressed several times your dislike for being here," he began, carefully choosing his words, "and although I have no doubt that in time you'll come to see the benefit of my actions, I am aware that you're a creature of light who does not belong here."

She nodded to acknowledge his words, afraid that if she spoke it would still betray the hope that was unfolding in her chest.

"But, as you know, I am not an ordinary man. I do not fit into Parisian society or anywhere else."

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence as both of them seemed to remember the incident in which she had torn off his mask and exposed his face.

"I cannot hope to show you the beauty of nature, of those hidden oases that managed to withstand the steamroller of human progress. I can only hope to make you realise that beauty can thrive in darkness also, that there can be splendour where you least expect it."

Just when she was about to get lost in his speech, he extended his mechanical hand to her and helped her settle down in the gently swaying gondola. She could hardly remember when he had ceased being the cruel maestro she despised and yearned to punish and had become Erik, simply Erik, once more. How dreadfully foolish it made her feel to be unable to keep up her resolve to reject him. But perhaps if only he showed her more of his humanity it wouldn't be necessary. Whether she liked it or not, she had started to care about him.

"My lake mustn't frighten you, Christine," he said softly, mistaking her silence for fear.

"It's dark," she offered, if only to humour him, "and so vast I can hardly guess where it begins and ends."

"Yes, I daresay it can be easy to get lost in it," he agreed pensively, "especially when one follows the siren's call."

Her forehead crinkled into a frown which he did not see or refused to acknowledge and so her silent question went unanswered. He rowed them steadily into the darkness, away from the passageway that would lead up to the abandoned dressing room, that much she knew. When the torches that lined some of the outer walls of the house vanished from sight and they were plunged into utter blackness, Christine's heart began to flutter nervously.

"Erik?" she asked uncertainly, her voice high-pitched and frightened.

What she wouldn't give to see as clearly as he could!

"Trust me."

His voice teased her ear, as if he had abandoned his rowing position and sunk down by her side. Calm and comfort mingled with pleading desperation in his tone. He wanted her to be courageous and bold, despite his misconduct, despite his deception. It was a great favour to ask and yet she found she could not resist the hope he placed in her. There were so many roles to play, too many roles and yet when he was with her like this calmly and without threats, she wanted to become the heroine he had cast her as.

Her hands found the hem of her simple dressed and grasped at it, holding on to it in support in hopes the gesture would escape him.

"See what I have created!" he instructed shortly after, his magnificent voice booming impressively through the air around them.

Automatically, she followed suit, easing herself down onto her knees so she could lean forward. Her hands were now holding on to the end of the boat, relishing the feeling of the cold water that washed up in gentle waves against its wood. She squinted into the dark until her eyes watered and then was finally rewarded with a glimpse of the surprise he had prepared for her.

Out of the depth of the lake and evidently defying all laws of nature rose resplendent candelabras. They pierced the surface of the water and rose higher still until they basked the entire cavernous structure in their warm light. Christine gasped softly, casting her eye here and there, suddenly terribly greedy to take it all in.

There were too many candelabras to count, some near and some far, all of them illuminating what had previously been hidden from sight. The rugged ceiling of cracked and sharp rocks had been shaped into a beautiful dome from whose very centre stone spikes dangled like a chandelier of stalactites. The walls of the hollowed out structure contained murals in wonderfully warm colours. How he had managed to reach up there baffled the mind. The paintings depicted starry night skies and rich sunsets, mythical Gods and Goddesses and creatures that walked the line between human and inhuman.

"Erik?" she asked suddenly, turning so abruptly that the boat swayed and she very nearly lost her balance.

"Yes?" he chuckled, clearly amused by the urgency that seemed to have gripped her.

Then he eased the pole that had manoeuvred the boat into its holder and sank down on his knees before her.

"You obviously are fascinated by the mechanisation of the world. Your inventions are a tribute to that, your house, the support you have offered Meg Giry."

He nodded while one of his long fingers slipped beneath a latch on the boat's base and snapped it open.

"Yet your art, your creativity remains free of it all. Even the Opera's production history is devoid of fantastical automatons, modernised costumes or altered instruments. Why is that?"

Once more her eyes slid to the domed ceiling to examine the masterpiece he had created. It went without saying that he was the reason the Opera had not employed more machines to make the productions resemble the outside world.

"My…relationship with progress has been an ambivalent one," he answered slowly, producing a basket of baked goods from the compartment beneath the latch. "As a boy I was all too eager to believe in its perfection, in the possibilities it offered. My face is a perfect example of the blind faith I put into it."

She paused to look at him, but he refused to meet her eyes, his hands staying busy also arranging the selection of cream filled eclairs and sugary tarts in the basket.

"Hope can be dangerous, Christine," he finished with a heavy sigh, "it's a resilient spark that refuses to die. I often abandoned my trust in the progress that was being made around the world, but just as often I re-discovered it again when life without it appeared too bleak. An apprenticeship in Italy and Greece helped me see the beauty of simplicity that's so often concealed behind ostentatious tricks designed to impress. Operas are carried by the beauty of music which underlies them. Distracting the eye with silly accessories, pyrotechnics or automatons would do it and the audience a grave injustice."

As if to conclude the topic he placed some of the food on a plate and waited until she accepted it. Christine was somewhat surprised to find that she was smiling.

"You're terribly eloquent when you want to be," she teased him gently and took a first bite. The chocolate icing of the éclair was a delicious if also decadent treat for her taste buds.

In the light of the candelabras it seemed as if his ears turned red and bashfully, he reached back to scratch the back of his head.

"I am more than happy to answer any of your questions, my dear, surely you must know that. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to see you happy."

The smile on her lips grew softer as she watched him roll up his sleeves before gingerly guiding a piece of pastry to his lips. How she wished he could always be like this, even-tempered, amusing and kind. An ordinary man plunged into extraordinary circumstances.

How similar they were in just that moment. Two oddities clinging to each other, surrounded by a kind of peculiar beauty the rest of the world would always remain ignorant to.

"I was wondering if you would do me a favour, Erik," she began gently, setting her plate aside to take both of his hands in hers.

Trepidation and fear were instantly visibly in his golden eyes. Would he ever look at anyone without mistrust?

"Take off your mask," she urged him gently and strengthened her hold on him when his hands threatened to slip away, "I have seen what lies beneath and it does not frighten me anymore. Please, trust me as I just trusted you. There is no need for this disguise."

The tension in his body was obvious even though she did not touch him, and his eyes held on to hers for the longest time as if assessing the sincerity of her promise. Then, agonisingly slowly, his hands slipped out of hers and reached backwards to untie the mask and as the ribbon slipped through his fingers she found herself holding her breath.


	30. Dream and Reality, 1883

_Chapter 29: The Netherworld_

_1883_

He focused on her eyes alone as the mask slowly slipped off his face. He could feel the humid air of the cavern graze his raw, exposed flesh and despite the warmth it left him feeling vulnerable and cold. Still, he looked into her eyes, sought solace in the fact that they remained clear and determined. It was obvious that she was trying to prove a point and never before had he wanted someone to be so right.

At last the mask landed on his lap, the hideous face illuminated in the twinkling lights of the candelabras. They were close enough for her to see every horrid detail but although her mouth twitched and her nostrils flared as she dragged in a hurried breath of air, she remained composed and conscious.

"Thank you," Christine remarked eventually.

Perhaps she had noticed his rigid posture or the involuntary curl of the fingers as he yearned to put the mask back on.

"It is I who should be thanking you," he replied, embarrassed to notice that his voice trembled, "a greater gesture has not been extended to me."

"Not on any of your great travels?" she questioned and he found himself smiling.

Undoubtedly, months ago that challenge would have incensed him and sent him into a fit of rage. He would have punished her for her ignorance, yelled at her until she understood once and for all what a life such as his entailed. But now…now he knew her better than that. He was able to detect the smallest of smiles on her lips which meant that she was hoping to tease him gently, not to poke fun at him but to alleviate some of his anxiety. Even her fingers which nervously grasped at and let go of the hem of her dress communicated that despite her own nervousness she was attempting to build bridges between them. Maybe she was even hoping to hear another one of his stories.

"It is true that many honours have been extended to me upon my travels," he remarked, hoping that the sweeping statement would ignite her curiosity further, "but what I have always yearned for…what I never…"

The lump in his throat appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Perhaps it really was the magnitude of the gesture or the words that finally gave shape to the pain he had endured that overwhelmed him. Either way, he had not intended to cry in front of her, but with the lump came the tears and there was no use wiping them away. They pushed their way down his waxen cheeks and slipped into the gaps between the fine constructs of silver.

He felt helpless and ashamed, a boy clinging on to the kindness of a woman far greater than him. And there was her hand, a faint touch of her fingers against his knee; more consideration than he'd ever been shown.

"Forgive me," he uttered when he trusted his voice not to crack, "do go on eating, my dear, I did not mean to interrupt you."

She found his eyes with a shy look of her own; his Christine, so beautiful, so whole.

"Go on," he encouraged her gently once more, leaning forward to nudge the plate with the half-eaten éclair closer.

The movement brought them nearer also, their faces only inches apart and suddenly he was drowning in her, drowning in the beauty of her lines and curves, in the immaculate arch that were her brows, in the promise that shimmered serenely in the depth of her eyes. No master mason, no composer or painter could possibly have created something as wondrous as her.

All at once she seemed to melt under his smouldering gaze and dutifully guided the éclair to her mouth. He did not watch her eat it but leaned back again to consider which story he could offer that would entertain her the most.

"It was a great honour to work under the architects in Greece and Italy, as you know. But an even greater honour to learn from a Gypsy called Mauro. He taught me the language of silence - for he was deaf and mute - and even more about the healing powers of nature."

Her face scrunched up into a frown as if she was mulling over the information and connecting it to something else.

"He offered me a space of my own in his tent, as if I was more than an animal that needed to be locked up in a cage."

"A cage?" Christine gasped softly.

"Oh, my dear girl," he muttered bitterly, "don't be surprised by the cruelty of mankind. They see a creature they don't understand and their fear forces them to banish it behind bars." He sighed deeply and flexed his hands as if hoping to dispel his anger through his fingertips. "Fear is poisonous. It is much easier to act, to condemn and to hate. God forbid you come to realise that the creature you've brand marked and banished is of flesh and blood like yourself, grieves and laughs and experiences pain just like everyone else. No, that would require change and the world isn't quite ready for that yet."

She looked intimidated when his speech had ended and he silently cursed his passion for getting the better of him. Hopefully, the moment was still salvageable.

"Mauro helped me find my own way out of this dreary situation."

He would not mention Javert or the abuse he had suffered. He would not taint her innocent mind with scenes that haunted him to this day.

"The kumpaniia never became a family for me but a community I was part of. There were performances to plan and things to learn. There was a structure that gave my life meaning for a short while at least."

"Kumpaniia means a…a kind of tribe of gypsies?" she asked curiously.

"Yes, and there are many in this world. Some of them have particular names, others merely call themselves travellers. But most of them know each other, if not of each other one way or another. They leave markings that communicate danger, shelter or food. They have rituals and traditions and, really, they are a fascinating folk to learn from if their minds weren't so riddled with foolish superstition."

"But you escaped them?" she asked.

Her eyes were wide and eager by now and she barely seemed to register the sway of the boat as they rocked from side to side in midst a sea of candelabras.

"I did," he nodded, thinking of Mauro's final sacrifice and the violence that had followed. That, he would not tell her either.

"And then you made your way to Persia? How?"

She seemed greedy for knowledge now, insatiable but he understood and was more than willing to indulge her.

"In the years after I left the kumpaniia I built up a certain reputation as a craftsman, an architect and a magician. Confidence sent me to Turkey where I knew of the construction of a new palace. I presented myself and became chief architect. News travelled to Persia and the very greedy Shah sent out his henchmen to come and fetch me, by force if necessary. Thankfully, the daroga was a soft man and I detained him for as long as I pleased until I was ready to travel by my own free will."

"The daroga? Is he the Persian who delivered your letter?"

"Indeed," he confirmed. "Nadir is a strange individual of considerable loyalty. A loyalty that can easily become a nuisance." He chuckled and waved his hand to cast aside the thought. "He presented me to the Shah and instructed me in the art of court cordiality, but a king was worth no more or less than an ordinary man to me and so I treated him as such which early on sparked his ire." Erik paused and moistened his parchment-like lips, thinking back to the bloodshed and the intrigue with a horrified shudder. "Of course, he wasn't the only man with an agenda. Almost everyone I encountered at court thirsted for power and was secretly plotting a vendetta. It was easy enough to get caught in the crossfire, easier still when you're someone refusing to be forced into submission."

"I always pictured Persia as exotic and foreign while still vastly fascinating. So that isn't true?"

Her small hands were inching towards the basket for another pastry, perhaps even a slice of that terribly sweet cake he'd bought.

"No, it most certainly _is_ true," he corrected her swiftly, "but it isn't only that. That's only the glorified version. Of course, I could tell you all about the splendid baths with their turquoise tiles, the scent of herbs and spices or the majestic domes and towers standing tall against a backdrop of magnificent mountains and barren land. I could tell you about the beauty of the colourful garments, the giant markets with their surprising goods, but it wouldn't be the full picture." He paused to check that she was eating and then ran a hand through his hair. "In the Shah I encountered a young man of similar age as myself who would not listen to advice or reason, except when it was delivered by his mother, the Khanum."

He shuddered involuntarily yet again and the hand that had been weaving through his hair a moment ago began to shake.

"You fear her," Christine stated evenly.

The focused attention she lavished on him was beginning to make him feel nervous.

"Yes, she was…I…I wouldn't want to go into too much detail. I wanted us to spend a pleasant evening, after all. Suffice to stay she had a knack for bringing out the very worst in people and she took great pleasure in it also."

His thoughts wandered to the young slave girl that had been sent to him as a mock-gift. He would never forget her screams when he had begged her to stay the night. He wouldn't have touched her, he would not have, yet she preferred the punishment of death to the thought of keeping him company.

His mismatched brows furrowed as he slowly returned to the present and his eyes fell on the girl in front of him once more. She was eating and she seemed fairly comfortable, yes, but as his eyes took in her flawless curls and her smooth pale skin he realised once more what a fool he had been. He couldn't possibly hope to win her heart, not he, the sad beast trapped in the confines of a dungeon.

He had given her the key, of course; in his hopeless infatuation it had seemed like the only right course of action, but now he realised that she'd never know how to make use of it. Christine Daaé would never set him free.

"Perhaps it is time we returned, my dear," he murmured quietly, pushing himself to his feet with a great deal of effort.

Everything suddenly seemed to be gnawing at his strength. Every muscle in his body was aching and weary, every push of the pole into water seemed to cause him pain. Any moment now he'd lose his balance and tumble head-first into the cold water of the underground lake. He'd willingly sink into the arms of the siren, never to be seen again.

"Have I upset you?"

Her voice was so small that he barely realised she'd spoken. He wanted to look at her but all his attention needed to rest on the pole now as it slipped smoothly into the dark water. Any break in his attention would cause him to lose momentum and that, in turn, would be the beginning of the end.

"No, my child," he tried to say though his effort only came out through gritted teeth, "your company has been a delight."

"Then are you unwell, Erik? Please?"

Her voice escalated and in her desperation she seemed determined to clamber to her feet, rocking the boat and doubling his efforts.

"Sit down!" he chastised her sharply, very nearly feeling the pole slip out of the grasp of his metal hand. "Foolish child. Do you wish us both to drown?"

Out of the corner of his eye he watched her sink back down to the base of the boat, drawing her knees protectively against her chest. He had frightened her again; good, it was important she remembered who he truly was.

With almost frantically harsh movements he manoeuvred them back to the docking bay of his house. His legs were trembling by now and he disembarked with a lot less elegance than usual, still making sure to extend his hand to Christine and help her out to the best of his ability.

She did not meet his eyes and although it pained his heart he did not comment, still holding on to the belief that it was for the best this way. In silence they walked into his sitting room where the Siamese cat had stretched out so luxuriously on the sofa that it was almost impossible to fit two more figures on either side. And so Erik sank down on the comfortable armchair instead, visibly fatigued.

"Shall I make us some tea?" Christine suggested.

He tried watching her which was nearly impossible since his chin stubbornly sagged down against his chest. But from what little he could tell she seemed frightened yet focused. There was a clarity to her tone that suggested that the fear wasn't clouding her mind, that she was, in fact, determined to find a solution for the problem that was presenting itself to her.

It made him smile. And then he realised that he hadn't put his mask back on. It was still lying somewhere in his gondola. How odd. When had his instincts grown so sluggish?

"Erik?"

There was a definite tremble to her voice now.

He'd failed to answer her first question, hadn't he? His tongue felt heavy and unmoving.

"Yes…tea…" he managed after what seemed to be the longest time.

The sharp rhythm of her footsteps indicated the urgency with which she set about the task, the unsteady clang of metal indicated how she struggled coming to grips with his samovar. The most peculiar feeling was spreading through his body. The hopelessness of the situation continued to linger yet something akin to peace had stolen over him, too. It would be alright to close his eyes now for just a moment, warm and comfortable in the safety of her company. Another heartbeat in the house.

"Erik? Erik!"

He startled and automatically reached for his Punjab lasso. Then her concerned face swam into view and he lowered his hand again.

"Your tea is getting cold," she remarked, smiling nervously before sinking down at his feet.

With both of her hands she clasped his and rested her hot cheek on his lap.

"I know you're upset with me and I know you want me to go to my room, but please allow me to stay. Please! I'm afraid of what will happen if I go now."

He could feel her tears soaking his trousers and it felt like heaven and hell combined. Gently, he freed his ordinary hand and lifted it to rest on the crown of her hand. Her hair was soft, the curls so inviting.

"Don't cry, my dear," he murmured, "I will just rest for a moment or two and then all will be well."

It wasn't his promise to give, but he needed to do it nonetheless. He could not bear to see her so distressed.


	31. His Desperate Plea, 1883

 

_Chapter 30: The Netherworld_

_1883_

 

The room was quiet except for Erik's soft breathing and the occasional bristling snore the Siamese cat produced. Christine maintained her vigil at his feet, her chin resting on his bony knees so that she could keep a close eye on his face. How fatigued he must have been, she thought, to fall asleep in her presence. She did not fool herself into thinking that trust had anything to do with it. And really, how could anyone expect a man once kept in a cage to ever trust again?

She used the moment of silence now to examine his face, all too aware that the gamble she'd taken earlier could have gone horribly wrong. She hoped he hadn't noticed just how much she had struggled gazing at him, at that face that looked – above all – so terribly ill. Half machine, half human, neither quite complete. Now she stared at it voluntarily yet again, safe in the knowledge that any sign of fear on her face could not be held against her, could not cause greater damage. She focused hard on the task so that she might learn every raw piece of flesh, every bit of bone and every metal insertion thought to improve it. Perhaps if she looked at it long enough it would stop frightening her. She really wanted to be able to look past it and see the man underneath that she was beginning to get to know now.

Any moment now she expected the weary eyes to open, she expected to see the beautiful golden hue of his irises that would inevitably bring her comfort. But his lids remained shut and after a while she grew so tired of watching him that she fell asleep, her head sagging down to rest in his lap.

When she next came to, it took a while for her to realise that she truly was awake. In her dreams she'd been flying on the wings of the great Huma Erik had told her about. She'd clung on to its feathers desperately as the winds swept over them, afraid that any time it would turn its big, terrifying head and peck at her. But as if understanding her fear, the big, majestic bird did not once turn around, but instead continued its peaceful flight, securely navigating them past towering mountains in whose ragged structure temples resided, across turquoise lakes where mermaids with braided hair frolicked and above rich meadows in between whose blades of grass tiny scorpion's nested, their stings emanating a strangely beautiful music. She cried then, her head still buried in the bird's feathers, cried for her own ignorance that had nearly robbed her of seeing everything the great fable creature had wanted to show her.

Now, her body still felt as if it was being jostled about softly which was why it took her a moment to realise that she'd awoken from her slumber. Her head was resting against a chest that felt bony and cold, but the heartbeat that steadily thrummed beneath it made her remember his humanity and helped settle her down. How he managed to carry her in his fatigued state baffled the mind, but she couldn't help feeling flattered also. Being held like that, comfortable and secure in the arms of a man was an entirely novel experience.

"I've been neglecting you, my dear," he murmured soothingly and it felt as warming as if he was stroking her hair, "and you have exhausted yourself."

"It's quite alright, Erik," she answered, her reply muffled against his shirt, "you were unwell and I was concerned. You mustn't feel guilty. I was happy to look after you."

Perhaps she heard his soft intake of breath because she was closer to his heart now, but if ever she had needed proof of how she moved him, it was there in that one sound.

"You really shouldn't be carrying me either, you know?" she added playfully.

"Perhaps not," he granted and she was happy to hear the humour in his tone, "but it would not have been proper to rudely wake you and ask you to clamber up to your room."

"How chivalrous of you," she chuckled, opening her eyes just wide enough to see him gazing down upon her.

The obvious affection she found there, however, stole her breath and made her hurriedly close her eyes again. Thankfully, they entered her room a moment later and after he had gently placed her down on her bed, there really wasn't a reason for him to linger.

"Sleep well, my dear, I shall see you in the morning."

For a moment or so he kept holding on to her hand, looking at it as if he contemplated kissing it, but then he seemed to come to his senses and rigidly moved his arm behind his back.

"Goodnight, Erik," she answered softly to release him and watched him as he left the room. Somehow she found herself holding her breath still, as if she had been hoping that he might kiss her.

* * *

 

Morning came much too quickly and saw her dishevelled and mildly disoriented despite the lateness of the hour the clock on the dresser seemed to indicate. Feeling guilty at keeping Erik waiting and firmly ignoring the undercurrent of fear for his well-being, she stumbled out of bed and retrieved the first best dress from the wardrobe. Her next stop was the dresser from which she picked up the beautiful ornamental brush. She did not have the time to sit down but adjusted the small mirror so she could see her reflection as she ran the brush through her hair.

The lack of sleep gave her skin even more pallor than usual, but otherwise she looked well and healthy, a drastic change from the reflection that had greeted her right after the abduction. She should have felt better for it, but instead it only brought the confusion back to the forefront. How could she loathe and care for someone simultaneously? How could she forgive his harsh treatment? Oh, it was maddening!

But there was no sense dwelling on it. Pulling the drawer open, she unearthed a number of ribbons and accessories and quickly pulled her dark curls into a side swept ponytail that hung loosely over her shoulder. A final glance in the mirror confirmed that she looked presentable enough now to face him and so she firmly pulled open the door and stepped out onto the balcony.

Her enthusiasm died down a second later when she realised that she'd rather abruptly become privy to a tableau that she hadn't seen before. Erik sat in the armchair closest to the fire again while the silver-haired man she'd come to know as the daroga was reclining on the sofa, a rather large distance between him and the Siamese cat who didn't seem to have shifted since the previous night. Erik had rolled up his shirtsleeves and was carefully tinkering away at his metallic arm. He had opened up compartments of it that she hadn't known existed and was removing and inserting the smallest pieces as if the flesh, muscle and bone exposed beneath it could not feel any of it. It was an almost sickening sight and the Persian, thankfully, seemed to share her feelings.

"How much longer do you think you can keep doing that?"

She couldn't see more than his profile but his voice very clearly expressed his disdain.

"Keep doing what?" Erik questioned without looking up from his handiwork. "You'll really have to be more precise. I can't possibly be expected to keep up with all the things you disapprove of."

It was strange, she thought, how this one exchange seemed to encompass their whole relationship. From Erik's words she had certainly deducted that both men were begrudgingly fond of each other.

"I believe I have lectured you enough for one morning about the abduction of Miss Daaé. But more than that, I know when I'm beaten. You stopped paying attention to me long before I'd finished my last sentence. There is no point in me continuing. We will take her back to the surface once she's awake and that's final."

Silence enveloped the two men below and an icier look passed between them, before Erik proceeded tinkering at his arm.

"No, what I was referring to just now is that awful habit of yours," the daroga continued, gesturing crisply with his dark hand. "How much longer do you think you can keep doing that? Until there's no flesh left anymore? Until you've reached an ideal image that only resides in your head, that changes steadily while you mutilate yourself?"

Christine swallowed hard against the emotion his words evoked. How could one not be moved when a man spoke straight from the heart like that? And he was right; watching Erik work was almost painful because it was so obvious that in his desperate attempts to transform into something beautiful, he had done more harm than good.

"Nadir," Erik's voice unfurled itself quietly and softly bridged the gap between them. "I am more than aware that my time has come. The signs have all been there. My body is failing, metal poisoning, no doubt from too much exposure. It's in my blood, it's tainting my heart and soon I will succumb to it but please, permit me to make some final alterations. My muse depends on me and I shall not disappoint her."

It was as if his words wrapped themselves around her ankles and dragged her down into a bottomless sea of despair. How could she possibly live up to his expectations? How could he place such a burden on her shoulders when he knew all along that he was about to disappear?

"Think of what you're doing to yourself, man!" the daroga entreated angrily, but Erik cut him off with just as much aggression.

"Only I have control of what happens to my body, Nadir, and I urge you to remember that my inventions, my tinkering once saved _your_ life! That heart is beating in your chest because I probed and unpicked and discovered. You'd do well to remember that."

The fury that whirled up in the room like a hurricane very nearly stole her breath, but before she had a chance to consider what Erik might have meant with those words, she found herself addressed directly.

"Do come join us, my dear."

His voice was a gentle caress once more. Nonetheless, she felt caught, cornered by his invitation and a blush crept to her cheeks.

"Forgive me, Erik, I didn't mean to pry. But I did not wish to interrupt your conversation either."

Erik's eyes remained firmly focused on his arm, while the Persian's jade ones met her with a mixture of warmth and concern. The sadness of his gaze made it difficult to look away but with no reason to linger on the balcony, she was forced to move, finding his eyes again the minute her feet met carpet.

"Nadir Khan, Miss Daaé , believe me to be relieved to find you here and well," he spoke, rising to his feet like a gentleman.

His hand extended to her automatically, but when she reciprocated the gesture he only gave it a squeeze instead of lifting it to his lips. Similarly to Erik, he, too, seemed to anticipate rejection should he overstep an invisible line.

"It is a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Monsieur," she answered and the smile on her face was genuine.

Despite the stern words she had heard him speak, he was a comforting and calm presence which helped soothe her nerves. Leaving his side, she took a seat on the sofa, close enough to prompt Ayesha to lift her head and glare at her.

"I am to return then?" she asked if only to break the heavy silence.

Feeling ignored, the feline lowered her head upon her paws once more.

"Yes," Erik replied and it was curious how he continued to avoid her eyes, "the daroga insists on it."

She momentarily contemplated inquiring about _Aida_ , about all the work they had done. But instinct told her that Erik wouldn't wish to discuss his plans in front of his friend.

"Your disappearance has caused quite a stir, Mademoiselle," the Persian added by means of explanation, "you have become very dear to a great many people, some of which have threatened to involve the Sûreté if you aren't found."

Christine's gasp of shock was drowned out as Erik gave a derisive snort. Nadir broke into a frown.

"You may consider yourself untouchable, Erik, but perhaps it is time you considered Miss Daaé's role in this. How can she possibly explain her disappearance? How will all of this reflect on her?"

The kinship she had felt the moment she'd laid eyes on him was strengthened now by the kind consideration he was showing her. Unfortunately, Erik did not seem to react well to that.

"Christine will become the rising star of Paris and before long all of this will be forgotten."

He sounded like a disgruntled child who was adamant on getting his way. Her eyes grew sad as she unenthusiastically reached for a sandwich that had been prepared for her. She chewed slowly and remained silent, churning his words over in her head. But no matter from which angle she viewed them they always left her feeling like a tool, as if her voice was the only thing that mattered to him anyhow.

Nadir seemed to notice her disappointment and offered a re-assuring smile. "Whenever you are ready to leave, Miss Daaé."

She nodded in understanding and finished her meal, washing the remainders down with a bit of cold tea. It seemed as if Erik might not speak to her anymore at all until suddenly, he looked at her when she had risen to her feet.

"Nadir, if you wouldn't mind waiting at your boat for a moment."

The Persian's eyebrows drew together but Erik dismissed him with a swift wave of the hand.

"Come, come now. I shan't make her disappear, you know?"

Still, the Persian gave a doubtful hum and with a last look over his shoulder vacated the sitting room.

The moment Erik's eyes found hers she was suddenly relieved that it had not happened earlier. It was as if all tension returned to her body, as if she instantly found herself aching for him.

"There is something I must ask of you, Christine," Erik began seriously and she was surprised when he, too, rose to his feet to position himself near the fireplace.

One slender finger ran up and down the mantelpiece while he seemed to search for the right words for his plea. A feeling of dread stole over her suddenly. What could he be hoping to ask that was so difficult?

"Several months ago I gave you a pendant so that you might find your way to me if you wish."

She nodded wordlessly and touched her hand to her chest where the peculiar key resided underneath the layers of clothes. In the first few nights after the abduction she had angrily stuffed it under her pillow but as they'd grown closer, she'd taken to wearing it again.

"Now there is something else I beg of you to accept."

His voice was ripe with so many emotions that she could hardly identify them all. But there was fear which added nervous tremors, hope which soothed the sharp edges of the confidence he pretended to have and a desperation found in the clipped pronunciation of every consonant. She tried to steel herself for what was about to follow, but he was upon her before she even had the chance.

His hands, both cold, gripped hers tightly and at last pressed an object into them so small she could hardly make it out at first. And then all the words he'd been searching for previously came spilling out of his mouth.

"You said last night that you do not mind caring for me and that is all I ask of you to do. Think of this ring, of this proposal as a promise to a dying man, a lonely creature who shan't confine you for long."

She heard what he was saying, of course, and yet she couldn't say that she understood.

"After the opening night of _Aida_ you will come here with me and we shall be wed in the pavilion." His eyes briefly flickered over to the piano. "We shall say our vows over the altar of music. You must believe me when I say that I have no further expectations, only for you to be my bride, my companion until death finds me at last. And you've heard the daroga, it shan't be long now. Only a few weeks, a few months at best and you shall be free again."

The manic desperation and the tears in his eyes were genuine and yet she found herself unable to connect. It was as if a blanket of ice had settled over her and frozen everything, including her heart. Yet her face burned with the intensity of the proposal and her throat was dry and parched.

"I'll be a good husband, Christine," he continued, breaking her down with every whimpered word, "I will honour you and protect you. I will be anything you wish for if only you agree."

She swallowed his words and felt them rip her apart on the inside. At last, he seemed to compose himself, taking a step away so that she could finally see the simple gold band that glistened innocently in the light.

"Find me on the eve of the premiere and give me your answer. That's all I ask."

She nodded numbly and silently as her fingers curled around the ring.

Somehow she managed to turn and make her way to the daroga who stopped fidgeting nervously when he spotted her. His hand wasn't steady when he helped her into his boat but she felt safe nonetheless as he pushed them away from the curious house in the middle of the lake. Ordinarily, she might have inquired why Erik had built him his very own boat and where it was hidden since she had not seen it before, but Erik's proposal ghosted around in her head still, robbing her of words and breath.

She could have asked so many questions and found so many answers, but how was she supposed to think when such a heavy weight had just been placed upon her shoulders? How could she possibly deny the wish of a dying man? How could she deprive him of this when so much had already been taken from him? Yet how could she become his wife when she did not understand her own feelings, when she had kissed Raoul?

Oh God, Raoul! A sob crashed up against her lips, only contained by a hand swiftly placed over her mouth. How could she have forgotten about him? Her face burned with shame and self-loathing because it was true. The moment Erik had become human again, all her fantasies, all her curiosity had been about him, no thought dedicated to the sweet young man who had done nothing wrong. Was she truly so selfish? So dreadfully confused? And if so, would it be right to give either man a definite promise?

"Mademoiselle?"

The Persian's voice was gentle as if he knew that he was trying to draw her out of a state of great upheaval and conflict. Only then did she realise that they had arrived at the mirror, that somehow she had been walking for the past few minutes. Normally, she might have found it remarkable how well he knew his way around the passageways, but even that did not occur to her.

Carefully, he worked the mechanism that spun the mirror on its axis, but before she could step out he touched her shoulder.

"Erik loves with all the helplessness and possessiveness of a child," he offered tentatively, "yet he twists and manipulates with all the tricks of his God-given genius. I hope that you know that, Mademoiselle, and I hope that if ever you feel frightened or alone you know you have a friend in me. If there is anything I can help you with, I would gladly be of assistance!"

This was her chance! This was the moment to throw herself into his arms and beg him to help her flee this city, to flee this choice she had been burdened with. All she had to do was open her hand to reveal the ring and he would understand. But her fingers remained locked and the words did not come.

"Thank you, Monsieur Khan, you have been most kind," she replied instead and stiffly crossed the threshold into the world of light.

Silently, the mirror slid closed behind her and yet she felt as if the usually abandoned dressing room was filled with another presence. Had her mind not been so occupied, she might have noticed the footprints that broke apart the layer of dust on the floor.


	32. The Second Accident, 1883

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kudos and sorry for the delay! I had a major struggle getting anything for this chapter written. Hopefully it'll flow better now!

 

_Chapter 31: Palais Garnier_

_1883_

The noose was tightening and the end was inevitably upon them. These were the feelings that plagued Erik in the weeks to come. Every aspect of his life seemed tainted by the brush of finality and perhaps in response, he worked himself into a manic frenzy. While his body appeared determined to show him its limitations, his mind was determined to push him beyond what was possible.

He was dreadfully fatigued, that much was true, at times so much that he struggled to move, yet at night when he was meant to rest a curious energy throbbed through him that compelled him to find the piano and work on his compositions. _She_ was at the end of every train of thought, _she_ bled from his fingertips onto the keys as he composed and created, only to block out the fact that _she_ hadn't given an answer to his question then and there. In rare moments of clarity he knew that she would reject him and yet he was desperate enough to hope that his sorry state would compel her to stay.

His days were spent above ground, overseeing the rehearsal process for _Aida_ as best as he could. He liked surveying it all from the rafters but more often than not was forced to conceal himself in box 5 instead when his declining health gave him no choice. Dizzy spells overcame him more than once and terrible coughs forced blood from his throat and onto a number of handkerchiefs that he had taken to carry. Despite his orders to avoid the _Palais Garnier_ , he spotted the Persian lingering in some corner or another on several occasions. His presence incensed him and yet he sought solace in the knowledge that Nadir would never witness anything he didn't wish him to see.

Christine's voice buoyed him and invested him with the will to continue in the moments he thought he might not even see the birth of this production he had – to some extent – directed. It rang through the building with perfect clarity and it filled him with pride to hear how much she had grown.

Oh, triumph was bound to be hers!

She would be the one to carry the production. It was true that he had chosen the best musicians, the best dancers and singers, but even he did not possess the ability to motivate disgruntled performers to fill the smaller roles that they'd been handed with life. Intimidation could not soothe the sting of wounded pride; not that he wasn't willing to try.

After a while, however, he stopped paying attention to the angry murmurs that filled the corridors of the _Palais Garnier_ which was something he'd come to regret later. Perhaps if he would have picked up on the undercurrents early on he might have been able to prevent the tidal wave that was about to crash down upon them all.

In retrospect it was bordering on a miracle that they made it to the dress rehearsal without an incident, more so that Erik was there to witness it at all. Throughout the night his body had flared up with a kind of heavy fever that had made sleep impossible. Wherever he looked, omens of doom seemed to hang in the air. Still half delirious, he had staggered up to box 5 and sunken down on the comfortable armchair with a heavy sigh. It was foolish to place himself amongst people in this dreadfully vulnerable state, he knew, but he was also aware that he would loathe himself more if he missed what could be the last chance to iron out flaws. Not that he was perceptive enough to pick up on the subtle details as more than once he found his heavy lids drifting shut. Half succumbed to slumber he found himself floating on the wings of Christine's voice, his soul departing his body as they both soared together.

_See heaven's gates are open wide_

_Where tears are never streaming,_

_Where only bliss and joy reside,_

_And never fading love!_

Beneath the mask his face was wet with tears and his insides were burning with the kind of grief and joy he had come to associate with her. Then, with only the smallest bit of warning he was yanked harshly out of this dream-like state.

"Good God, it's going to fall! The sarcophagus is going to fall!"

His body automatically snapped to attention before his feverish mind could fully focus. Bless Madame Giry and her eagle eyes!

The sarcophagus of perlato marble that he had given into construction himself had started to wobble on its heavy chains, and he was entirely helpless to watch as first one cable snapped and then the other, sending the heavy set piece hurtling down towards Christine. The tomb he had so carefully created for the final scene now seemed to become his angel's final resting place. He screamed in agony, not caring that he might be discovered and watched on in horror.

Thankfully, Madame Giry's observance bought Christine the time she needed to fling herself out of the way. The sickening crunch never came. The sarcophagus somehow caught itself in one last chord and was hanging suspended, if also lopsidedly so, in mid-air. His heart, already weakened from his illness, seemed to give out entirely in his chest. His whole body was shaking and it was only instinct that catapulted him clumsily into the shadows and away from prying eyes.

Not that any focus was resting on him, he soon observed. The ensemble members had created a circle around the near tragic scene and were offering words of concern to the soprano who lay trembling on the floor. But soon other words entered the chorus until a chant of "The Opera Ghost" began to swell and grow.

At first, he paid no attention to the managers that were nervously looking around or to the former prima donna who had burst onto the stage, wailing loudly in distress as if it was her who had just experienced an attack on her life. No, it took a moment before he connected their behaviour to the man standing hunched over the rails of one of the swaying catwalks.

_Joseph Buquet._

Erik narrowed his eyes in order to make out what he was clutching onto so forcefully that his body was doubled over with the effort. Quietly and still unsteadily, he disappeared into the column that marked the entrance to this secret passageway and stole up to a vantage point in the rafters. The commotion that still took place below ensured that nobody paid close attention to the happenings up here, and Erik could disguise himself well enough to assess the setup.

Darkness had always been his friend and it cloaked and concealed him magnificently now as he tentatively inched across the wooden boards behind the figure of Buquet. From there he could see clearly what had been hidden to him before. A chain fed into Buquet's hands and another one across a hook that had been newly drilled into the ceiling. Together they formed a sort of safety catch for the heavy sarcophagus.

But the question was, had Buquet been there at the very last moment to help Christine or had he been part of a set-up intended to frighten her?

With a swirl of his cloak he was gone, re-positioning himself to the panel behind the managers' office. Fatigue, fever and shock made him feel clammy and sick to the stomach and all his instincts screamed at him to look after Christine, but he couldn't possibly let this go, not when he knew with such certainty that a dangerous game had been afoot.

It took hours before anyone entered the office. He knew because he repeatedly kept checking his pocket watch when the lack of movement felt suspicious to him. Unfortunately, he couldn't be everywhere at once though he hoped that the daroga would be able to shed some light on the happenings in the auditorium.

When finally the managers set foot into the office, they were urgently talking to someone in hushed tones. Erik gripped on to the panel before him with the tips of his fingers and listened carefully for Buquet's voice, but it never came. Instead Carlotta's passionate albeit hushed voice assaulted his ears.

"The girl was not harmed just as I promised, so pull yourselves together!"

He heard the heavy steps of Monsieur Richard as he crossed the room to sink down on his leather armchair by the desk. Monsieur Moncharmin's teeth seemed to be chattering as if he had spent the past few hours outside in the cold winter air.

"It was entirely too reckless!" he finally managed to say.

"A calculated risk," she chuckled and Erik felt his pulse speed up.

That resentful harpy! He should have known to keep an eye on her!

Thick silence descended upon the room and he picked up one of the binoculars to survey the scene. Richard had set his heavy elbows down upon the desk and folded his hands as if he was pondering a deep philosophical question. Moncharmin looked pale and restless, twisting strands of his grey hair around his finger time and time again. Only La Carlotta looked truly pleased with herself, almost as if a much acclaimed critic had given her a rave review in the papers.

Oh, he couldn't wait to wipe that smirk off her face. He would not kill her, he was too disgusted to touch her as a matter of fact, but he would make sure that she would be ruined forever.

"Messieurs, cheer up! Your prima donna is returning!" she called as a parting gesture, her back already turned towards them. "Besides, you did not display such scruples when I offered you that handsome reward. No-one even suspects your hand in this. It was our friend the Opera Ghost." She grinned broadly. "Even the Sûreté is searching for him now."

So she wanted to play a game with him? Well then, a game she should have.

"Careful, Signora," he whispered softly, a projection of the voice so light that it only grazed the shell of her ear, "a wish can all too soon become brutal reality."

It gave him great satisfaction to watch her stiffen for a split-second before she clearly dismissed the disembodied voice as a distasteful hoax and continued walking. Nothing else remained to be said to the managers, they would pay the price for their greed soon enough.

Erik only began to notice the full impact of the shock when he tried making his way to the dormitories. His legs trembled with every step and for once the darkness that reigned in the passageways seemed to eclipse even his miraculous sight. Leaning against the wall for support he drew in deep, gasping breaths. Something was tightening around his neck, the end was unequivocally near and the burden of loss weighed heavily upon his shoulders.

Despair and emptiness in a magnitude he had not experienced since Christine had entered his life, returned to him and filled him with a heaviness and fatigue that threatened to render him immobile. But anger was a terribly skilled motivator and somehow it seeped through the cold and the damp that had taken hold of his body and into his very core. If this was truly God's great design, to spite him even at the final turn, he would perform the deviant role He had chosen for him!

The dormitories lay quiet and still when he had finally regained enough energy to get there. Christine looked comfortable if also pale and the steady rise and fall of her chest was a great relief. Still, he could not find it in his heart to linger, not when he only had one night to set his plan into motion. Nothing reached him anymore, no twitch of conscience; not even Nadir's note left behind on his table urging him to use caution and care did anything to move him.

His mind – brilliant and extraordinary though it was – was focused on one thing and one alone: revenge.

Had one been observing him from afar, one couldn't have guessed the atrocities his mind was conjuring up. He looked much too calm and composed for that, too unmoved by the deaths he was taking into account.

One hour bled into the next but it hardly mattered to Erik, for there was only darkness where he resided now. Darkness gave him the strength to arrive in the rafters long before the preparations for the evening's premiere began. Anger helped him utilise the previous day's setup for his own devious ends. Fury and a bloodlust so strong it would have made the khanum proud caused him to rage against Carlotta in his head, challenging her to one last game if she really thought she was tougher than Christine. And a cocktail of drugs coursing through his veins ensured he saw all of this through.

Gradually, the Opera became alive around him. The rolling sound of wood on wood indicated that the set pieces were pushed into position, the squeaking of wheels pointed at mechanisms being tested. Soon voices rose around him and the compartment in the rafters began to heat up in the glow of the stage lights that were being switched on one after the after. The heavy high priest's cloak he had chosen as his disguise did the rest to make him feel uncomfortable.

He listened dispassionately to Richard's encouraging speech, to the whispers about plain clothed members of the Sûreté in the audience, all the while trying very hard not to imagine his Christine forced to the side lines. It was a travesty, this accident, this performance that had robbed her – yet again – of her chance to shine. Never again, he thought as the orchestra began to tune and the figure of Buquet stepped into view, never again.

Still, he had to patiently listen to the entire first act before his moment came. Carlotta's rendition of Aida was even more painful to bear now that he had heard Christine's, and the mere idea of her wearing the beautiful white gown he had created with Christine in mind added insult to injury.

When the first notes of the Triumphal March swelled around him, he carefully abandoned his hideout and stalked closer towards the figure of Buquet. Around him, the air was rife with the smell of heated wood, tainted only by the stench of spirits and sweat the closer he drew to the man.

"You've wanted a dance with death, Joseph?" he whispered softly into his ear. He felt him quiver against his body which prompted a satisfied grin. "By God, man, you shall have it."

The cutter garrotte was a simple enough invention, a piece of perfectly sharp piano wire attached to two wooden handles, except that in Erik's case only one handle was necessary since the wire fed instantly into his metal arm on the other hand. To the shouts of "Gloria!" from the chorus, he yanked the wire tighter so that it bit into Buquet's skin, and by the time blood came spurting forth and wire met bone, the magnificent piece of music approached its sublime climax.

His body was shaking now too with the familiar thrill of murder, every fibre of his being alive with pleasure. It had been some time since he had last indulged so fully and even now he could not drink his fill of it; time was against him. He only had minutes to string the useless body with the half-decapitated head up, using the same hook in the ceiling that had been put there to hurt Christine.

Beneath him, a hush had fallen over the audience, no doubt a by-product of the majestic music they had just heard. But eventually it was broken again by Aida's lament and plea for mercy to the Egyptian King, an aria which left him cold since Carlotta's artificially amplified voice had no colour or life to it. Casting his golden eyes upwards one last time to the dangling body hanging hidden in the shadow of the rafters, he fastened the cutting mechanism which he could trigger remotely and walked away and positioned himself on the mechanical lift situated at the back of the space.

Swiftly, he pulled the dark high priest's hood over his head to conceal his identity as well as the blood that had splattered on his shirt and emerged behind the stage a moment later. Carefully, he joined the rest of the ensemble that were cued to make their way towards Aida, Radames and the Egyptian King out in the limelight.

His Christine, his angel, once more confined to a meagre chorus role was right by his side, dressed in a dreadful gown that hang loosely from her small form. As desperate as he was to reach out to her, he used this further injustice to fuel his anger and kept his distance, focusing on the back of Carlotta's well-concealed neck instead.

When he was finally close enough, he used the throng to his advantage, parted his robe and withdrew a silver dagger from within the folds of the garment.

"Now, little songbird," he hissed angrily, barely registering Christine's head as it whipped in his direction, "let them hear your true voice!"

And with an angry slash of the knife he disposed of the coarse material that ran up La Carlotta's neck and throat and exposed the strange contraption he had long suspected underneath. There was largely metal where flesh should have been and a round device fitted to her throat, no doubt created to pick up the movements of her vocal chords, turn them into electric impulses which could be amplified.

The gasp of the crowd gave way to stunned, humiliating silence as Carlotta croaked out a whimper while desperately trying to hide herself. Perhaps the Parisian audience would have welcomed their peculiar diva, but they did not like to be cheated and kept in the dark.

Terrible laughter erupted from deep within him when the first threatening calls began to swell up in the auditorium. The sound only grew in horrible intensity until he finally triggered the mechanism that cut the rope holding the dead body of Joseph Buquet. It plummeted heavily to the stage where the impact caused the half-decapitated head to come loose entirely. It rolled forward, propelled by its own momentum then stopped short just before dropping into the orchestra pit.

For a moment the whole scene was frozen in terror, then the crowd dispersed in screams of horror while the diva before him folded in on herself and collapsed to the ground.

Rapidly, Erik turned to face Christine, extending his ordinary hand to her that still bore speckles of blood.

"Come with me now, there isn't much time!" he pleaded breathlessly, but her eyes were wide and frightened as she slowly began to back away.

Then the treacherous name left her lips as she frantically scanned the crowd for a way out.

_Raoul_.

"Christine, now!" Erik tried a second time, but she was washed away in the current of the throng, straight into the arms of the man she had begged for.

He must have been standing in the wings, ready to support her should she need him. How good she was in the art of deception, how eagerly she must have called him to her aid when she had suffered the fright the previous day. That she would have ever honoured her promise to give him an answer to his proposal seemed a split-second Erik's eyes met those of the Vicomte and he knew that he had created a formidable opponent for himself.

No time in the world would have offered him the chance to separate them and so he slipped through the hatch of one of his trapdoors and vanished out of sight. The triumph, in the end, was hollow as her terrified eyes continued to haunt him. She would never trust him now and he would never forgive her this second betrayal that had propelled her instinctively into the arms of her lover.

The path ahead was clearly mapped out. Christine would have to be forced to make a choice and the boy would inevitably have to die.


	33. Twisted, 1883

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that this will have to be the last chapter for a while. The next chapter will take us directly (more or less) into the "Final Lair" and while I have most of it mapped out, there are a few things I think might only come together once it's all been written. That means I might write one thing in the first chapter and then realise later on I need to go back and add something so that it all comes together. So to take the pressure off me, I will only publish the next chapter once this is all finished. This might obviously take a couple of weeks. I hope you can wait!

 

 

_Chapter 32: The Zeppelin_

_1883_

Raoul's hand was steady and warm as he guided her through the shrieking masses. He must have offered up comforting words as well because every so often his head turned to look at her and his mouth opened and closed. She saw his lips forming words, caught the blooming and wilting of re-assuring smiles but was numb to any other experience. People's screams were still ringing in her ears, there was pushing and shoving, elbows digging into her skin, frantic panic but always Raoul's calm guidance as he parted the crowd gently but with determination and with the help of his walking cane.

Every face had the same shocked, open-mouthed expression of terror. Everyone wore that same visage. Bulging eyes, bloodless lips that formed a silent, frozen scream.

She shuddered as the cold night air hit her skin, leaving ice where trails of tears had been a moment ago. Snowflakes danced in an angry storm that was no longer beautiful but bit itself deep into her flesh at every occasion. Together, they battled against the wind while uniform-clad members of the Sûreté ran past them and into the opera house. She could not bear to follow them, neither with her eyes nor with her thoughts, for the trail would inevitably lead back to one man and she could not think of him just yet.

Raoul's zeppelin seemed to be anchored much too far away, but as if sensing her fatigue he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her close as they continued walking. It was then that she realised that she was still only clad in the shapeless piece of fabric that constituted as a slave girl's dress. Her legs and feet were bare and of an angry red colour by now.

The warmth in the airship came as a shock then and she wondered distractedly where the source of the heat might be located. Without words Raoul manoeuvred her into a chair and wrapped a comfortable blanket around her shoulders, before withdrawing to the front of the zeppelin to prepare everything for take-off. Again she thought he might have been uttering words of comforts.

She felt the jolt of the aircraft as it slowly started to lift up, being swayed back and forth by the whims of the wind. But she did not look outside to watch the magnificent city lights. Instead, she developed an interest in the carpeted floor her feet were resting on. Staring at it without really seeing anything she examined the pattern woven into it, then wiggled her toes to spread the warmth. By the time she had repeated this again and again, Raoul had sunken into a crouching position before her.

He spoke, but she did not hear him and he must have realised it, for he suddenly cupped her face and brought them both on eye level with each other.

"It's alright now. You're safe here."

She smiled back at him because it seemed the correct thing to do but did not find it in her to agree or protest. For protest was what she should have done, had she not felt so numb. Everything was far from alright and no matter the distance or time, it would never be alright again. A man had had his life brutally taken and she could see no reason behind the senseless act.

Murder had no reason.

It was revenge, pure and simple. Revenge against a spiteful woman who had not been afraid to apply any methods available to claim back her place as prima donna. That much Meg had indicated after the staged accident. But by succumbing to his baser instincts, Erik had taken a life, destroyed a career and traumatised a number of people who'd only wanted to be entertained. By succumbing to his rage, Erik had inadvertently become like those that he despised and feared.

Once more his terrible laughter rang through her mind, the pleasure in it so apparent that it made her shudder anew. It was then that the tears finally came, though she could not pinpoint what or who she was crying for. Perhaps she was a selfish little creature after all, for her initial thoughts revolved around the choice that had been placed upon her.

How could she grant this man the peace he deserved?

How could she sacrifice herself now when he had shown how terrible and ruthless he could be?

Yet how could she deny him this final wish? How could she not agree when a rejection could spell more danger for the people she cared about?

She must have hidden her face behind her hands because the next thing she knew was that Raoul was gently prying them away to make her look at him again.

"Christine, you must talk to me," he insisted, "it won't do you any good keeping it all pent up."

She tried focusing on his dear face, but the tears that were clinging to her lashes made him seem like nothing more than a blurry vision.

"Who was that man? That dreadful man? And what did he want from you?"

Her eyes widened momentarily as if Raoul had inadvertently opened up a secret she had hoped to keep to herself. As if by mentioning _him_ , _he_ no longer just resided in her head but also in the real world. His presence now filled the space between them, a presence so great it seemed to alter her very relationship with Raoul. Who she had been before he had entered her life and who she was now no longer matched.

Perhaps it was then a testament to the desperation that befell her that another person entirely popped back into her mind. Anything not to dwell on the man in the mask.

"Where…where is Meg?"

Her voice shook ever so slightly as her eyes darted about as if trying to locate her friend.

"She's alright, she's fine, Christine," Raoul re-assured her, squeezing her hand before stepping back to the wheel to adjust the course of the zeppelin.

He looked regretful and that puzzled her. Maybe he'd been reluctant to leave her side.

"She came up to check on you when we were leaving. Didn't you notice?"

She closed her eyes and carefully thought back but found herself instantly awash in a sea of faceless people once more.

"I did not see," she murmured, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders.

For a moment or two a soft silence descended upon them. Raoul either had to manoeuvre the airship or was at a loss of what to say. Concern was clearly evident on his handsome face; he seemed frightened to prod her further lest it bring about a complete breakdown. This begged a direct comparison to Erik's behaviour after he had suffered his attack. Both men clearly did not think her robust enough to survive emotional upheaval, and the poignancy of that realisation struck her where she was most tender.

Her heart shone in her eyes and so she altered the direction of her gaze and looked out of the window instead. The snowstorm had been left behind beneath a thick blanket of clouds, as had the brilliant city lights. Here, high up in the sky were only dark, comforting hues and a handful of gently twinkling stars. And suddenly she longed for Sweden again, for its wilderness and the reliable guidance of her father. But she couldn't go back there anymore and even if she did, nothing would be as her memory was trying to make her believe.

She felt Raoul take a seat next to her, heard the sigh that expressed his own weariness. It was enough to distract her mind.

"You did not answer my question," he reminded her gently.

She looked at him with her tearful gaze, feeling that she had wronged him terribly, for she could clearly see what thoughts were swirling around in his head. They had not talked much about the events that had taken place in the early hours of the New Year. They hadn't been given the chance to since Christine had disappeared immediately afterwards, and now the kiss and its associated promise hung heavily between them.

The next time they had seen each other was when word about the accident had reached Raoul and he had instantly hurried to her side. He had been so concerned and gentle that she had not been able to refuse him. Now she saw that she had done him a great disservice.

Perhaps he misinterpreted the regret that was so plainly written on her face, because she could find no other reason for the question that he posed next.

"Was it him? The man in the cloak? Was this your Angel of Music? The man whose company you prefer to mine?"

The anger and hatred she encountered in his tone momentarily robbed her of breath. Never before had she experienced her dear, sweet Raoul in such a way. But when she looked at his face, when she found his eyes, she saw what he could not put into words. He was suffering, he was in pain because she had forced him into this state of limbo. He had done everything right, he had been kind and patient, funny and encouraging, and still she was denying him the certainty that he so craved.

How easy it was to become the villain, to turn into the role one least liked to cast oneself as.

"Oh, Raoul, please forgive me," she whispered, clasping his hands in hers as the tears dripped down her chin. "I owe you so much, though perhaps above all honesty. But first, I must ask one more favour of you. Who was is that told you of the Angel of Music?"

She swallowed down another flood of tears because it was her turn to be strong now.

"Meg Giry," he answered simply, though his voice still bore the rough traces of his emotions, "I begged her to be truthful with me after you had just disappeared. I asked her what I could not ask you. If I had offended you, if there was another suitor who held your affections. That's when she mentioned him…this angel," he spat out the word, "this tutor you have apparently been seeing."

Christine nodded solemnly and continued fighting for composure. She was not angry with Meg because she knew she'd only been trying to help. She could not fault Raoul his jealousy either.

"What she's been telling you is right, Raoul," she finally confessed with a sigh, "I have been receiving private lessons, but he is no angel, he's just a man."

Slowly, the words she had been keeping to herself for all this time unfurled themselves from deep within her and gave birth to a story of a lonely man and a lost soprano who had found comfort in each other's shared experience of the world. She told Raoul about the singing violin and the scorpion music box, about her first encounter with Erik and her glimpse of a face she no longer feared.

She talked about the green house, the stories, the laughter and the tears and the terrible temper she'd had to endure. She cried when she passed on the details of Erik's lonely life and smiled when she talked about his beautiful voice, his extraordinary craftsmanship.

The choice he had given her she did not disclose. It was too private a moment to share, or perhaps she just wanted to hold on to one part of him.

"So there is some truth to it then," Raoul concluded once she had finished her explanations, "the affection in your tone is unmistakable despite the terrible acts he has committed."

She opened her mouth then closed it again, feeling her bottom lip tremble all the while. She still could not fault him his anger but wished, nonetheless, that she could make him see the ambivalent feelings she had towards Erik.

"I do not love him, Raoul," she answered at last, "not like you suggest I do, but I care about him and wish him no harm…I just…" God, how she was starting to hate those tears that robbed her of words, of the ability to speak. "I'm frightened of him. I wish he had not murdered. I wish I could be a child again…"

The sobs shook her body ruthlessly and compassion, she mused, more than anything else must have compelled him to draw her close against his chest.

"Oh, Little Lotte," he whispered soothingly into her hair, "what has happened to you?"

She cried until she had no more tears to shed and wrapped her arms around his middle so that the darkness could not drag her down. But when her hands came in contact with the metal that constituted his back, she choked out a sad chuckle.

How similar these two men were, how different their paths had turned out. Could Erik have altered his situation with a little more faith in himself and in humanity? Could Raoul have ended up in a secluded house belowground?

"Marry me!"

Two words that did not register with her at first and so she snuggled herself deeper into Raoul's chest to breathe in the familiar scent, to seek comfort in the warmth of his embrace. But the words returned and she could not shut them out, no matter how much she tried.

"You know my feelings for you are genuine, Christine," he added passionately, "you know I have the means to take you away from this man. You could grieve whatever bond it is you shared with him, you could recover from this whole ordeal. You know I would look after you! Marry me, just say the word and I will whisk you away this instance!"

Trembling, she tilted her chin up to seek out the kind eyes she felt she'd known almost her entire life. She noticed the fine wrinkles that adorned and framed them, as if he had aged considerably since they had encountered each other again. Christine willed him to take back his proposal, to discard it as something that had transpired in the heat of the moment, but she knew he was too proud and too honest to ever do so.

Gently, he freed himself from her grasp and disappeared towards the upper part of the zeppelin from which he emerged a moment later, carrying a small box in the palm of his hand.

"It is your decision, your choice, Christine," he told her softly, handing over the precious item. "Think about it."

His voice started to fade again just as it had done before in the Opera. She blinked down in disbelief at the box she now held in her hand.

Did either man truly consider her feelings in all of this? Or did they both merely see her as the missing piece in the future they had mapped out for themselves?

For a moment, it felt as if she was fourteen again, alone and lost at the beach, confronted with a decision that was much too big to contemplate.


	34. The Final Descent, 1883

_Chapter 33: The Palais Garnier_

_1883_

Anger, resentment and bitterness were his fuel now, the only things that kept him going. His mind had disconnected from his body the minute he had got wind of the secret plot to undermine Christine, and now it no longer served him to experience what was happening in his body. The fatigue would have taken all wind from his sails. His mind, on the other hand, was alive with thoughts of revenge which he used effectively to channel them into plans.

After the Sûreté had stopped searching the auditorium for him, he sought out the managers who sat cowering and shaken in their office. He used their fear and their guilt for his own ends and ordered them to seek out Christine upon her return – for return she would, of that he was certain – and beg her to take the role of Aida for one show at least to clear the name of the opera house.

Erik knew how she functioned, knew that her pathetic little spirit would crumble under the pressure placed upon her. She would not deny the request, not when she felt partially responsible for the events that had unfolded.

La Carlotta would no longer pose a problem either, he'd been assured. According to Richard and Moncharmin she had fled the city. Hearing this amused him, but it failed to satisfy him fully. Christine's betrayal ran so deep that it tainted every experience.

When his focus slipped, he could hear her whispered plea for the man that wasn't him, and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest. Ice flowed through his veins then, but not the kind that helped him to think, the kind that hurt and cut deep into every last corner of his body.

The evening was spent at his house, preparing the trapdoors that would be required to work smoothly the following night. He prepared his automaton and set his traps and then carefully crafted the two objects that would present Christine with her final choice. Then, come morning, he detachedly made sure that Ayesha was fed and his plants sufficiently watered, before he tended to himself and picked out the clothes he would wear that night.

He settled for a frock of black velvet that extended beyond his knees and was fastened together in the middle by a set of four silver buttons. Underneath he wore a burgundy-coloured shirt and simple black trousers which ended in ankle boots of the same colour that were kept firmly in place by silver skull buckles. With his blood red mask and slicked back hair he was the perfect image of the God of the Underworld.

Evening fell anew and with it he could sense his opera house, his creation, come to life again. He was the heart of the building and so he considered himself capable to hear every conversation, to feel every delicious burst of blood that kept it alive.

It was a purposeful decision to leave his underground passages via the mirror that evening, the mirror which had offered the first bridge into Christine's world. That was, after all, how this particular plot had begun and it was only just to visit these early themes again as they were heading towards the spectacular finale.

The dressing room smelled stale, no longer filled with life that Christine had brought to it. It had served its purpose, but was there a plot twist? His head tilted to one side as his eyes noticed a steady trail of footprints on the floor, footprints that did not match those he was already familiar with. With a sigh that betrayed his level of exhaustion, he sank into a crouching position and slid a gloved finger across the dusty surface. What he was looking at were not the footprints left behind by his angel's shoes. No, those had a heel which had left different marks upon other areas of the floor; neither did they have the shape of ballet shoes. These were man's shoes, larger in size.

Perhaps the brave young suitor had set himself the task of confronting him. Or perhaps the daroga had been snooping around in an effort to see what else Erik had planned. Whatever the explanation, he was amused. Perhaps, he thought, a little game was in order. If it was truly the vicomte, he would not resist a peek behind the mirror. As for Nadir? He'd find his way to the house, of course, but he would not be prepared for the traps that awaited him there. The quicker he was out of the way, the better.

Fingering the mechanism a last time, he left the mirror ajar and stepped out of the dressing room and into the large corridor. Everything had fallen completely silent, only distant footsteps indicated that life resided in this building, after all. Still, it did not matter to Erik who strode as confidently as a king through the halls he had created with his own hands. He saw no need to hide himself any longer, for this evening the curtain would fall one way or another. And so he enjoyed as much as he could of this shrine to music that he had erected.

His hands lovingly caressed every surface they encountered, before he disappeared into one of the passageways once more and ascended to the privacy of his very own box. Before him lay the magnificent auditorium completely devoid of life. The stage had been scrubbed clean of the bloodstains Buquet's body had left behind and every set piece had been returned to its original position.

With a satisfied sigh he sank into the armchair of red upholstery and directed his gaze towards the ceiling where the pompous chandelier glistened. Preparing it for this final performance had cost him nearly too much strength.

"You've gone too far this time," a familiar voice spoke and Erik broke into a chuckle almost involuntarily.

So he had been right, the daroga had been hovering around.

"And so my conscience returns," he replied mockingly, lowering his eyes towards the stage again. "Trying to save my soul once more? For old time's sake, my friend?"

"You may laugh all you want," Nadir countered firmly, taking the seat next to him, "but I know you. You are lost and scared. So instead of lashing out, why don't you consider asking for help? I'm still here. This can all be resolved without more bodies, without more violence!"

"Don't be naïve," Erik bristled, his head whipping around as his temper flared up in an instant, "the matter is quite beyond repair now!"

"What do you have planned, Erik?"

The Persian was almost pleading by now, the desperation all too evident in his tone and in his eyes.

"If you refuse to tell me, if you don't stop, I will lead the Sûreté right to your doorstep, I swear! That girl has suffered enough!"

Darkness crackled behind his eyelids and anger nearly provoked him to strangle the man then and there. Did anyone care about _his_ suffering? Had anyone ever said, "Enough now, he's been through too much"?

No, Erik was meant to bear it all. Well, he would teach _them_ a lesson.

"Very well, my friend," he answered silkily, his anger having evaporated much too quickly, "I shall look forward to welcoming you to my home then."

Elegantly, he rose to his feet and rounded the chair that the daroga was sitting in. Swiftly and efficiently, his hand darted forward and into the bulkier looking pocket of the frock the man had chosen to wear. Slender, nimble fingers wrapped themselves around the curved silver object of his own creation and extracted it without the Persian noticing that he had even been touched.

Erik escaped the heat of the auditorium through the column in box five and followed the passageway down until he reached the floor directly beneath the stage. A glance at his pocket watch told him that he would not have much time to check the mechanism before the ensemble would arrive above him, and so he set about the task as swiftly as he could. No further thought was wasted on the daroga, for Erik knew that the man wasn't nearly observant enough for the position he had once held at the court in Persia.

Thankfully, Erik had kept all of his trapdoors well-oiled so that it became apparent very quickly that this one would not pose a problem either. And of how vital importance that was! This trapdoor was Christine's only escape from the crushing weight of the chandelier that would come hurtling towards her. He did not want her to die like this, not before she'd made her choice.

Closing the trapdoor again it was not long before voices indicated the arrival of the ensemble. Tentative footsteps danced over the stage above him, shying away from the edge of the orchestra pit where Buquet's head had lain.

Erik chuckled to himself, wondering how many members had backed out of the performance and how many had been convinced to stay by money or a sense of duty. It all went to show that those in power could get away with anything.

The audience number would have shrunken as well, of that he had no doubt, but there would still be enough of them to fill the house. Murder, mysterious accident or not, it was a scandal which was something the Parisians undeniably loved. Some of them would even be hoping to be treated to another spectacle tonight. Well, Erik mused while a sardonic smile blossomed on his face, they would not be disappointed.

Soon enough – once the ensemble had dispersed - the auditorium began to fill with sound, proving that his assumption had been correct. It was difficult to tell whether the voices that carried to his hiding place were more excited or nervous, but Erik was pleased either way to have spectators to this grand finale.

Just as it had done the previous night, the music soon began to swell around him and shadows danced across the stage above him, visible only through the thin cracks in the floorboards. And then Christine arrived, the train of her newly-fitted white dress whispering across the ground.

He followed her footsteps a level lower as far as he could and closed his eyes when her heavenly voice finally filled the Opera. This was what it had been meant to be like from the very beginning. Now her rendition of Aida would be the only thing of beauty which he would be taking to his grave.

For most of the performance he traced her footsteps like a lost lover whose only comfort was the close proximity that still remained, or stood raptured below, his eyes closed, his arms suspended in mid-air, hands grasping blindly for every note.

Then silence fell; Aida had sacrificed herself for her love and was now to be buried alive in the tomb. His body shook as he dragged out a ragged breath.

His moment had come.

From one pocket of his magnificent frock he extracted the detonator. The sound that followed was deafening. The explosives erupted in a cacophony of noise that silenced the initial screams of the audience. Then ugliness followed. A screeching, like nails on metal as the chains that supported the weight of the chandelier failed and surrendered themselves to gravity which cruelly dragged them down. The chandelier itself soon followed suit, plummeting ever downwards ripped loose from its constraints, lights flashing angrily.

In midst of the shrieks of the masses, Erik swiftly pocketed the detonator and worked the mechanism which opened the trapdoor on which Christine stood, and sent her falling to safety. She did not scream although she looked pale and frightened, her eyes bloodshot as if she had only been crying since he had last seen her.

Without uttering a word, he strengthened his hold on her arm and began dragging her away towards the wall in which his passageway resided. But she refused to come quietly. This time she struggled. She threw all her weight back to maximise his efforts, she attempted yanking herself free, all without speaking so much as a single word to him.

No, the first thing he heard her say was directed at someone else. Someone, not even he had noticed lurking in the shadows.

"Madame Giry," she cried, "your debt is paid. Take Meg and leave this place."

Erik scoffed and growled something incoherently before pulling her harshly forward once more.

Did she really think the old box keeper would protect her? She was working for Erik, after all.

Christine yelped in pain, eyes wide with fear and with trembling fingers ripped something off that she had been wearing around her neck. Then she surrendered herself to him and his firm grasp as he dragged her lower and lower yet beneath the surface of the opera house.

"I have kept my word, Christine, my promise to you," he told her aggravated, "I told you you'd be the shining star of the _Palais Garnier,_ and a star you have become."

Once more he pulled at her arm as they spilled out of the mouth of this maze of tunnels.

"You, on the other hand my dear, have been nothing but conniving and deceitful! Well, I have learned my lesson. Tonight you will have to make a choice. No more patience and no more understanding!"

He was beginning to feel light-headed and hurriedly gulped in a deep breath. Whether it was the doing of her voice that still faintly rang in his ears or the adrenaline of the moment remained unclear.

He was so occupied with himself that it was Christine's gasp and stifled scream that first alerted him to the body that was floating on the surface of the black lake.

"It appears we already have a guest, my dear," he quipped and with a delightful chuckle sank to his knees right at the water's edge. His mechanical hand remained firmly clamped around her arm. "Shall we see who it is?"

He twisted his face back up to look at her, an evil grin playing on his lips. Carefully, he prodded the body, gave it just enough momentum so that it turned around by its own accord until they were both staring into the washed-out, bloated face of Ubaldo Piangi.

Next to him, Christine barely suppressed another sob. Releasing her for just a moment - since she seemed too frozen to make any attempt at running away – he steadied the body with one hand and searched his pockets with the other. He did not unearth more than a gun and a soggy letter that bore his name in Christine's writing. From the looks of it, he had been snooping around for quite some time. Erik had no doubt that those footsteps he'd spotted on the dressing room floor had been his as well.

"This is what happens to fools who invade my domain," he sing-songed softly to Christine, "the siren gets them in her grasp."

And ignoring the soprano's terrified face, he dragged her away towards the house in the middle of the lake.


	35. The Underground Labyrinth, 1883

_Chapter 34: The Netherworld_

_1883_

 

He was standing in the wings the night of the famous accident, reports of which were soon to be distributed all over Europe. He was standing as close to the stage as he could without making himself seen, leaning heavily upon the cane on whose stability he now relied. The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming, and how could it not have been when only a day prior he'd stood at this very same spot watching a diva ridiculed and a corpse tossed carelessly in front of the audience?

He had told Christine that this was not a good idea, that the manipulative mind of the man called Erik – the man he'd taken to mockingly call "the angel" – was behind the managers' sudden desperation to see her in the role of Aida. Had she had been naïve, it would have stung far less. But although unspoken, he knew that she had been aware of the risks.

"I must sing for him one last time, Raoul, I must!" she had entreated him.

And although he had not understood the urgency or logic behind the plea, he could not have forced her to do otherwise. She was not his wife, not yet, had asked for his time and understanding there too, and he wished to do nothing to upset her. Still, if he saw anything suspicious, he was fully prepared to drag her off the stage and away from the opera house, away from the entire country if necessary for her to come to her senses again. The Christine he had spoken to recently was nothing like the Christine he remembered.

But although he was watching closely, Raoul could do nothing to stop the inevitable. When the foreign sound assaulted his ears, he initially felt disoriented. He knew, of course, that something was mightily wrong, but could not see what was happening until the shrieks of the audience compelled him to take a step out of the wings. He knew within an instant that the chandelier was about to fall.

"Run!" he shouted at no-one in particular, for he could not predict the exact path of the crash.

Anyone and everyone was currently at risk of being crushed.

His eyes fell on Christine twice in quick succession. First, to clumsily measure the distance between her and the falling object, and then again when he realised that her body itself had gone into motion, dropping down somewhere he could not see. That did not mean that he didn't know _who_ was awaiting her on the other side.

"This way, Monsieur," Meg Giry called who seemingly manifested next to him out of thin air. "I know another way."

The luxury of time was no longer on his side and so he followed her as she guided him into a dark corridor which ended in a large space beneath the stage. To his dismay, however, the space was also deserted save for the ominous figure of Madame Giry.

How curious that from this spot the screams of the audience and the thunderous crash of the chandelier sounded muffled and phoney. Still, he knew that they couldn't underestimate the speed of the fall and the consequent distance it might travel which could place them in harm's way.

"Mama, did you see Christine? Where did she go?" the little ballerina demanded breathlessly.

"She is beyond our reach now," the older woman answered soberly, directing much of her words as well as her gaze towards him, " _he_ has taken her and we'd do better not to enter his realm."

The respect this man commanded despite everything he had seemingly done was beginning to grind on his nerves. At this rate, it was really rather difficult to understand why anyone should pity let alone care for him.

"Madame," he uttered sharply before her daughter had the chance to respond, "this is not the time for cordiality or fear. Christine has been taken against her will and I cannot turn my back on it and pretend it did not happen."

"I have tried everything I could, Monsieur," she answered just as exasperatedly, "from the very moment she set foot in this opera house. _He_ has always shown kindness to those in need of support, those who looked alone or disadvantaged. I knew it was only a matter of time before he'd come to care for her. So I treated her stricter than the rest of the girls. I discouraged her wandering around in the dark, I kept watch over her…I knew with a heart so soft it would only be a matter of time before…" She sighed and covered her mouth. "I cannot go there, Monsieur. I cannot link the kindness he has shown me and my daughter to these atrocious accidents."

"Accidents, Madame Giry?" Raoul demanded in outrage. "These are no accidents!"

But there was no use, she wouldn't be convinced and if anything he was only wasting precious time.

"Come along now, Meg, it's time to leave."

The older woman's artificial eye nervously flickered upwards and then back to the door.

"I'm with the Vicomte," the blonde contradicted stubbornly however, "Christine is my friend. If I don't try to help her, I won't be able to live with myself."

"Oh don't be stupid, girl!" Madame Giry hissed angrily. "This is not the time to prove yourself. Christine knew that. She told me to leave the opera house with you. Now come!"

For a moment it looked as if the young girl was pondering her mother's words, but then she reached out and snatched something out of the old wrinkled hands.

"Where did you get this?" she demanded heatedly.

Impatiently, Raoul stole a glance at the offending object, confused as to why it was worth creating such a fuss over.

"Christine was wearing it around her neck. She threw it at me, I don't know why."

"She would not part with it lightly," Meg murmured, turning the strange _h_ -shaped pendant over in her hands, "it must be a clue."

"Now where did they go, Madame?" Raoul questioned firmly, frustrated at all the time that had already been lost.

"This way, Monsieur," the box keeper at last answered weakly, pointing to a wall in a far corner. "Please Meg. You must come with me."

Raoul turned his back to both of them at this point, not caring to hear another round of the frantic exchange. Instead, he used his hands to feel the stone wall. If the angel had abducted Christine through a trapdoor it was likely that there was just another hidden mechanism here he'd have to find. Fingers slipped over unyielding stone, felt its cracks frantically until his nailbeds started to bleed.

Above him, footsteps thundered now and shouts of the Sûreté resounded who were looking for survivors as well as for the one man responsible. The chandelier, it seemed, had at last come to a standstill, though what it had left in its wake remained yet to be seen.

In the meantime, frustration and helplessness welled up in his chest as he failed to find a lever, find anything that would explain Christine's disappearance. Both emotions manifested themselves in the end in an angry smack of cane against stone, except that the sound that followed alerted Raoul to the cleverly crafted illusion. Sitting cosily between layers of stone was one large panel of wood, painted and crafted to resemble the other material perfectly.

"Stand back, please," he commanded the two women who stopped arguing at once and watched as he unsheathed a pistol from the shaft of his cane.

With it, he tapped the wooden panel one last time to ensure he knew the precise location, before he aimed and shot a hole in it. With angry hands, he then put the weapon away and began tearing down the rest of the panel.

He'd only set a foot inside the hidden passageway, when a small hand caught him around the arm.

"I am coming with you, Monsieur," Meg Giry whispered and even in the half-lit hallway he could see the determination that shone in her brown eyes.

His friend the baron would have his hands full with her, his old, humorous mind supplied good-naturedly.

"Very well," he agreed and began wandering deeper into the corridor. Whatever feud mother and daughter seemed to have had, appeared to have been settled once and for all.

The journey the ballerina and the vicomte undertook was laborious and slow thanks to the darkness that prevailed all around them. The former of which struggled more with it, however, because the unpredictability of the ground made it harder for her prosthetic leg to find its footing. The air around them grew increasingly quiet until eventually only their footsteps echoed around them.

"I am certain that this is a clue," Meg whispered to herself, fingering the pendant with one hand while she used the other to steady herself on the wall. "Christine hid this under her mattress. She confided as much in me. I always assumed it was a gift from her late father, but if that were true she would not have parted with it now."

Raoul hummed absent-mindedly in agreement and squinted into the dark. The passageway had parted and split several times already and he was getting the sinking feeling that they were wandering terribly off-course.

"I've seen a symbol like this somewhere else before," Meg murmured anew, "if only I could remember where."

The wall they were holding on to was beginning to grow moist now, and it wasn't long before both of them thought to perceive the sound of rushing of water.

"The Seine, Monsieur? Perhaps he has a boat there."

The notion itself was logical which was why it filled him with such dread. If that were true, Christine could be anywhere by now. But then he remembered that she had described the angel as a recluse and as such he could not imagine that he owned a boat, let alone used it to take a route that would put them prominently on display.

Shrugging off the thought, he continued down the passageway they had last entered. Something brushed up against his leg, something thin and wiry but he dismissed it as nothing more than vermin when he heard the scurrying of little feet across the ground.

He should have heeded his instincts.

Where just a moment ago they'd been standing on solid ground, they were now suddenly plunging sickeningly downwards. Where to, neither of them could make out. Their fall was eventually broken by something hard and unrelenting. Small but sharp, pointy stones that dug into his flesh around his tailbone, the place where he was most sensitive because of the difficult operation he'd undergone. The pain was so acute that it knocked the air out of his lungs for a second. Then the rushing of water came again and a second later they were soaked to the skin and freezing, the only positive side effect of which was that it made him more alert again.

"Are you unhurt?" he asked Meg, squinting through the dark to spot her.

"Yes, but I've lost the pendant, I can't find it anymore."

She sounded frantic and a moment later he could hear the sloshing of water as she supposedly searched the ground for it. He left her to it and instead tried to figure out a way to escape this hole they had fallen into. For that's what it was as he discovered when he felt the walls around them. A hole, large enough to fit a handful of people, the height of which remained yet to be discovered, but judging by the fall it would be difficult to climb out. The walls had now also become slick with water, yet ironically that was what gave him hope.

"There has to be an alternative way out," he told the ballerina, "the water had to come from somewhere and if we can figure out its path, we'll manage to escape."

His confidence was only short-lived, because it was not only impossible to see anything in the dark, but the chamber they found themselves in suddenly began to spin. Music, which otherwise might have been deemed beautiful, welled up around them in a threatening, albeit subtle refrain that whispered all around them. Together with the slow spin it evoked a sense of foreboding so strong that he was very nearly tempted to succumb to his inevitable fate.

Beside him, Meg seemed to be pushing her head underneath the water's surface time and time again, still in frantic search for the pendant she had lost. Whenever she came back up for air, he could hear her teeth chattering or a groan of pain.

"I can feel it. It's caught on a rock!"

The temperature of the water was getting to him too, seeping through his trousers and straight into his skin. How she managed to submerge her head in it was quite beyond him. In between the heavy sound of the water as it washed up against the surfaces that surrounded it and the terrible music, he continued to perceive another one. It was much fainter, subtler even and yet perhaps because of it even more threatening.

There was a hum in the air that transformed into a buzz or a high-pitched ringing when he shifted closer to a wall, and all at once he realised why the sound was so terrifying. It was that of an electric current. Any second now, it could come in contact with the water that was licking at their knees. Any second now the deadly jolt could come.

"Meg!" he hissed urgently, throwing all propriety to the wind in light of this disturbing discovery. "Meg, we have to find a way out _now._ The maniac is trying to electrocute us! Can you see where the water is coming from?"

Wildly and with frantic hands he began searching the walls anew, jumping up from time to time in an effort to reach a higher ledge, but it was impossible. No small tunnel was discovered, no niche that they could have pulled themselves onto.

Next to him, he heard the ballerina push her head beneath the water. He opened his mouth to press upon her the urgency of the situation once more - for that blasted pendant was of no use to them now - when she emerged again breathlessly and whispered, "Down there, Monsieur. The chamber did not just flood from above. There is water seeping in from below as well. I can feel it!"

"Thank God," Raoul muttered, "that's our only chance now. You have to help me break it. It will flood the chamber, hopefully enough so that we can reach the surface and pull ourselves out."

It was a risky endeavour –especially for Raoul who knew that the metal rods inserted in his back were likely to weigh him down- but since they were in danger of electrocution, it was a risk they had to take. If he had trusted water as a boy, he needed to trust it now.

Following the ballerina's lead, he began feeling around for his cane which had to be somewhere, his movements growing more and more panicked the longer it took to find it.

"Come here, Monsieur," Meg suddenly ordered in a tone that much resembled that of her mother, "stand behind me and support me."

He remained silent as she guided his arms around her middle. Then, she pushed herself off the ground, relied on his strength to hold her and used her sharp prosthetic leg to slam into the ground beneath them. Once or twice they heard a chink as her leg encountered what sounded like glass, somewhat muffled by the weight of the water and the music. Other times she groaned and winced in pain, as she collided with solid wall instantly, the impact, no doubt, ricocheting through the rest of her body.

They repeated the process again and again until finally something audibly shattered and the water they'd been standing in began to rise faster.

"We'll have to be prepared," Raoul instructed her firmly, "don't underestimate the water. Be ready to swim at any moment. Keep pushing up until you see something or can reach something to pull yourself out of here. If you go under, try to stay calm, breathe, then preserve air and push on."

His warning came just in time for the water level rose and rose, filling the chamber rapidly. As soon as it had risen to torso height, they began to swim, casting their arms and legs about as the icy cold bit into their every limb.

Raoul did not speak, not even to ensure her well-being but sought comfort in the frantic splashing that echoed around him. She was frightened, yes, but at least she was alive.

The task was as hard as he'd imagined, and harder still. Not only was his body no longer used to such physical exertion, it also did not react well to the cold which seemed to paralyse him. Soon, his arms grew weary from the weight they had to drag ever upwards. Then, thankfully, he started to make out the contour of something else. A differently shaped chamber, likely to be the tunnel they had come from. With the final strength he had left, he pushed on, driven forward by the sound of electricity that seemed to grow in intensity by the second.

"Get out," he panted towards Meg, splashing around in the dark until he found her and hoisted her upwards to give her the boost she needed to escape.

This last ditch effort sent him beneath the water's surface where death's icy kiss welcomed him. Then something hard collided with him and caused him to emerge again, amidst a splutter of cold air and water.

"Quickly now, before it's too late!" Meg's urgent voice reached him and somehow he found her hands which she had bravely stuck out, and with her help managed to push himself out of the drowning pit as well.

Together, they lay coughing and panting on the cold stone floor, their lungs burning angrily, their limbs sluggish and heavy. Then more water seeped out of the hole and blubbered over them, drenching their upper bodies once more. Along with it emerged – a shriek of happiness later - the pendant Meg had so desperately been searching for.

But the moment of triumph was short-lived as a terrifying display of lightning suddenly illuminated the tunnel and a jolt of pure agony went spiralling through Raoul's back. He turned around quickly and stared into the water pit they had emerged from on whose surface now danced and crackled electricity. A panel on one side of the chamber had been removed to allow a large rod which had been invested with the current to come into contact with the water.

Almost in tandem, Meg and Raoul lunged away from the part of the tunnel that had been infiltrated by the water, but Raoul could feel his back burning nonetheless. The gold that constituted his spine had carried the current to singe his skin. It was likely that Meg had been burned as well. But when his eyes found her, illuminated every now and again by the flashes of light coming from the pit further down the tunnel, he could only see focus and determination.

The white slave's dress she had worn for her role in the ensemble hung pitifully from her shoulders and stuck like a slick and icy blanket to her shivering body, the base of her prosthetic leg was broken or uneven from her effort to rescue them from electrocution, but her eyes were alive with curiosity. In her hand rested the blasted pendant which miraculously seemed to have grown to more than twice its original size.

Noticing his gaze, Meg explained, "I think the electricity must have done it."

Once more Raoul studied the curious pendant. The _h_ shape of red material was still intact, but the strands of differently coloured material that had been following the same shape on either side had twisted and were now forming pathways above and beyond the letter in red.

"It must have contained a hidden mechanism," he voiced out loud, "which short-circuited when it came in touch with water and electricity."

Meg nodded slowly, her eyes gliding over the curious contraption in her hand.

"It's a map," she then breathed in awe, "it's a map of all these passageways."

She appeared to be right, and yet he failed to see how they could possibly use it to their advantage now. Granted, it seemed likely that the angel had taken Christine to a place which was located at the junction at the very top of the letter where the vertical met the horizontal line, for upon closer inspection it really seemed as if the pendant was an amalgamation of the letters _t_ and _h_. Even so, it was unlikely that they would figure out where in this vast web they currently stood.

But Meg was not someone to easily give up and he watched her time and time again, move the pendant closer to her face, tilt it, turn it over until at last she gave a small cry of triumph.

"I knew this symbol looked familiar, Monsieur! It is the sign of the Roman God Saturn."

Quickly, she pushed the pendant in front of his nose and pointed at a finely engraved line that read _Carpe Ceres_.

"Latin for _Seize the Harvest_. My mother insisted on giving me as good an education as possible," she remarked dismissively when she noticed his confused look. "Do you remember the evening you asked me to lure Christine out of the opera house? We met at the Eiffel Tower, and Pierre and I went to the fair while you whisked her away? There was a fortune teller there who laid the cards for us. Upon one of them I noticed this very same symbol and when I asked what it meant, he said it spelled doom, for it was that of the God of the Underworld, the God of Death, Saturn. The curve here," she paused to trace it, "is meant to represent his scythe."

Once more, she seemed to notice Raoul's wide-eyed look of shock, for she added quickly,"I think he merely tried to frighten us. Pierre later on explained that Saturn had also been the God of Agriculture which made the scythe far less scary."

Raoul drew his brows together and breathed out heavily through his nostrils. The burn at the nape of his neck was making his head hurt.

"How does this help us?" he, therefore, asked with some impatience.

"Well, it tells us something about the Opera Ghost. Perhaps he sees himself banished to the Underworld and so he gave Christine this map to find him. If we assume he has taken her here," she paused once more to tap the very junction Raoul had considered as well, "and we are here now," another pause followed by a tap elsewhere, "then we merely have to figure out which strand takes us there."

"But we don't know where we are!" Raoul exclaimed in exasperation which did not seem to affect the ballerina in the slightest.

"Look here," she answered calmly, pushing the pendant closer to his eyes once more, "can you see the marker?"

Raoul blinked against the swimming vision before him and then finally noticed it. A small silver bolt engraved finely into one strand of the pendant.

"There is a pair of masks higher up to symbolise the auditorium and other markings I cannot yet interpret, nor do I wish to. I fear they might be further traps."

He was at a loss for words and momentarily wondered if she had artificially altered her eyesight just as her mother had done, for he could never have spotted all these minuscule engravings in the flashing light.

"Can you find a way that avoids those traps and still leads us to his hideout?"

"Of course, Monsieur," she answered with a brilliant smile and soon after they set off.

As they walked, he leaning heavily against the walls for support, her limping even more so than previously, Raoul came to admire her greatly. Not only had she figured out the secret of a pendant which he had dismissed as meaningless, she had also spotted a route and memorised it, for the darkness that fell over them once they moved away from the pit made seeing impossible.

Thanks to her help, they made it to the belly of the scythe without further incident when the dancing light of a torch stopped them in their tracks. Pressing themselves to either side of the wall, they watched as a man emerged out of thin air who hurried, albeit with great care, down the ramp before them.

"Monsieur!" Raoul demanded angrily, as he suddenly recognised the dark skin and exotic clothes in the warm glow of the torch. "You know where he has taken her!"

It was the Persian who was often seen making his rounds through the opera house. His presence here now could not be a coincidence and his surprise was instantly apparent.

"Monsieur le Vicomte?" The woven threads of gold on his frock glistened and twinkled as he turned fully to face them. "Mademoiselle Giry? You cannot be here. It is not safe here for you now."

Slowly, he took in their drenched and battered appearance and swallowed visibly.

"You are lucky to be alive, I see."

"You know Erik then?" Raoul asked sharply, stepping closer.

"Monsieur, you do well to heed my advice not to utter his name, for he sees and hears all here in his realm."

"I'm beginning to think you are his ally! Did you know he would take Christine today?"

"I have been a great fool," the Persian admitted freely, "I should not have offered such respect to the man who saved my life. I thought I could sway him, but I was mistaken. This, however, is not the time for blame. You must return where you came from and trust me to rescue Mademoiselle Daaé."

"I will do no such thing!" Raoul bristled and angrily strode past him, ignoring the pain this caused his body.

But he did not get very far, for the minute he rounded the last bend of the scythe and turned right towards the junction, he saw that it wasn't a house or a place, but only a dock that sat on the edge of an ominously glistening lake. And there, only in the distance, could he see the flicker of light.

"His house floats on water," came the calm voice of the Persian who, together with Meg, had caught up with him. "Without a boat it is impossible to reach. You will freeze, Monsieur, before you get close to it."

"I have to try," he ground out through gritted teeth, even though he knew it was futile.

The depth of the lake seemed endless and his tired arms could not possibly carry him that far. With a howl of anguish he began pacing up and down the edge of the water.

"You monster!" he screamed at last. "You damnable monster!"

As if in response something crackled nearby and then a magnificent, booming voice spoke to them.

"It appears we have some guests, Christine. Now, I am not a cruel man. I really am rather hospitable. Shall we let them in?"

They could barely make out a whimper and Christine's desperate plea before the voice spoke again.

"Your suitor is handicapped, my dear, we must be understanding. And who else might be there with him? The Persian? Are you there, Daroga? If you are, then that is really rather disappointing. I'd thought you wiser by now. But perhaps you have come to fulfil your promise? Come to lead the Sûreté to my doorstep? I shall make it easy for you, my friend."

Silence fell around them again and for a moment or two it seemed that neither of them dared to speak. Then, suddenly, the water before them began to part, receding further and further onto either side of the lake.

It did not take long for Raoul to make up his mind and he shrugged off the shouts of warning that echoed from behind him. Carefully, he eased himself down into the now drained lakebed and began the walk towards the light.

Soon, footsteps echoed behind him, indicating that his two companions had elected to follow him, after all.

"This is a trap, Monsieur!" the Persian whispered urgently, grasping him by his arm in an effort to detain him. "Why would he let you endure that treacherous walk through his passageways, only to welcome you with open arms?"

"I am not an imbecile," Raoul answered curtly, "but I have to try. Christine is within reaching distance. What else do you expect me to do? Turn my back? I am not a coward!"

With nothing further to say the trio continued in silence, the light of the Persian's torch throwing eerie shadows against the cavernous walls and ceiling.

The first time they heard the melody it came faint and soft, passing over them like a warm breeze that was felt but that did not prompt action. Then it grew and transformed around them, irrevocably taking on the voice of a woman and a rather familiar voice at that.

"Christine?" Raoul muttered, his head whipping around in the direction the voice seemed to emanate from.

Oh, how the melody swelled and expanded, magnificent yet desperate in its sadness.

"That's Christine!" Raoul pointed out once again, changing the direction of his stride.

"No, Monsieur, please," Meg tried to restrain him now, "I know it sounds like her, but you mustn't go there!"

Fear was written plainly on her pretty face.

"I don't have a good feeling about this."

But the vicomte seemed entirely too bewitched by the voice of his love to pay her any heed. Shouting her name over and over again, he proceeded to walk further away from the house he'd been trying to reach.

"Save yourself, Mademoiselle," the Persian urged her, who seemed just as frightened as she felt, and reluctantly she left them to their own devices while she hobblled at a brisker pace towards the house.

The water emerged all around them just as quickly as it had receded, crashing down upon the lakebed from what looked like large tubes that fed into the outer walls. As much as the Persian tried to help his companion, it was in vain, for the voice of the soprano had successfully led them far enough away from the dock and the house to make a return impossible.

"I heard her, Monsieur, I heard her! I am certain it was her voice!" Raoul insisted, even as the lake swallowed them up.

Then all became iciness, darkness and pain, yet before he lost consciousness and succumbed to the dull ache that resided in his head, the vicomte thought to have seen the figure of a woman with long braided hair that slipped effortlessly through the water, her voice that of Christine.


	36. The Scorpion and The Grasshopper, 1883

_Chapter 35: The Underground Lair_

_1883_

 

Before the rushing of the water drowned out any sound – even that of her frantically fluttering heart which seemed to beat directly in her head – there was silence. She had heeded the Persian's advice, not out of fear for her own life, but because one of them had to make it to the house at least. That's where Christine was kept, of that she was certain.

The now uneven base of her prosthetic leg, slipped and skidded over the wet stones that had lost all of their rough edges thanks to the very own sway the water had possessed. She cursed angrily and loudly and in a language that would have made her mother blush and scold her thoroughly. But she did not care. All of these feelings were threatening to strangle her from within unless she gave words to them.

Into the fear she had for Christine's well-being mingled a sense of betrayal and guilt. _She_ had been the one to calm her friend's fears. _She_ had been the one who'd insisted that the Opera Ghost was a benign spirit. In her ignorance, her own naiveté to believe in someone who had seemingly believed in _her_ , she had driven Christine into the arms of a madman.

Unshed tears had already formed a thick lump in her throat and it was becoming increasingly harder to swallow them down. _He_ had made her feel safe, even when she had only thought him to be a spirit. The idea of someone in the wings, in the rafters even, casting a protective eye over her, witnessing her efforts and supporting her because of them had filled her with such determination and warmth that she had been able to push herself past the dreary, hopeless days. She had not thought him capable of any harm, not towards those that were kind and underprivileged. Before Christine had come along, he'd been her only true if also silent friend. Someone who had listened to her sorrows and respected her efforts; accepting him to be the man who had murdered and kidnapped was practically unbearable. But if she was forced to part with one friend to save the other, then she would do whatever it took.

Before the rushing of the water drowned out any sound and demanded her full attention, she caught a glimpse of the most peculiar house resting precariously on a rock-like structure. There were large tubes everywhere that protruded from it likes worms, and the house's underside seemed to be made out of a thick buffer which must have carried it easier when the lake was flooded.

Before the rushing of the water drowned out any sound, Meg possessed a flicker of hope that the Persian would bring the vicomte to his senses, that they'd all be united again to free Christine.

Then the rushing of the water came and with it returned the panic. Had she been closer to the perimeter of the space, she would have been overwhelmed by the sight of it running down the walls. But as it stood, Meg's experience was even more frightening. Except for the torches mounted around the house nearby, she could see absolutely nothing. But she could hear the power of the water as it thundered down upon the lakebed, and she could very well imagine just how quickly it would rise around her.

So despite the difficulty she had manoeuvring the slippery terrain, she hastened her footsteps until she became breathless. The breeze created by the momentum of her uneven stride made her shiver and pick at the wet fabric of the dress that clung firmly to her skin. The cold had infiltrated every single layer of flesh, slowly freezing her from the inside so that she doubted she'd ever manage to feel warm again.

It did not take long before she felt the water pool beneath her ordinary foot, before she heard the faint splash that occurred with every step. There wasn't much time, and still the house seemed unreachable. Breaking into an even more frantic pace, she kept walking, but in the end it was the expertly crafted spring of her prosthetic leg that gave her the power to make the jump up to the house and to safety before the water could rip her away and drown her.

Dazed, she lay on the plateau she had flung herself onto and heaved up nothing but empty air. As her fingers inched towards the edge to pull herself forward, she only saw blackness around her. The lake had swallowed up any trace of her companions.

Stifling a sob, she clumsily dragged herself upright again and scanned this new environment. It was difficult at first to really pay attention to it as her mind struggled to focus on one thing alone. Her brain, it seemed, was too overcome with a sense of terror to be able to cooperate. Still, she knew, that if she succeeded in distracting it, she'd start feeling calmer as well.

Touching her fingertips to the floor, she pushed herself upright. A shaky process, as her ordinary leg fought off exhaustion and her prosthetic leg fought for balance. She had wrapped the pendant's chain around her wrist as not to lose it in the dark and now it dangled down, grazing the ground as she pushed herself up. Quickly, she glanced at it but just as quickly surmised that it was of no use to her anymore. Its sole purpose had been to guide Christine to the docks. From there on, _he_ would have led the way.

Meg, of course, possessed no such luxury. The options that presented themselves to her were fairly limited. Either, she could set foot into what appeared to be a little cottage which was marked by a striking clock that looked almost out of place. Or she could take a left and wander off into the structure of glass that was spiralling ever upwards, defying even – it seemed – the height of the cavern.

In the end, it was her never-dwindling curiosity that made her choose the latter. Freeing the chain, she wrapped it around her neck instead and wobbled towards the glass house, wondering fleetingly what she would do if she was to stumble upon Christine. She did not possess the physical strength to free her out of the arms of a man and their way back was cut off by the water. 

The heat in what turned out to be a greenhouse hit her the minute she crossed the threshold. It slipped under her skin just as the cold had done and left behind a sticky film of moisture on her bare arms. Though the initial effect was pleasant enough, it soon began to feel as if poison had been injected into her flesh. Heaviness settled over her and the fatigue that had always been lingering there in the background appeared to win the upper hand. It was dreadfully tempting to forget the urgency of the situation here in this peculiar place where everything was beauty and warmth.

Once again she wondered how a man capable of creating so splendid an oasis belowground and in darkness, could also be capable of murder and abduction.

Gazing down upon the flowers one final time she ascended the delicate spiral staircase and stepped out onto a bridge that seemed to connect the greenhouse to the cottage. The cold and damp that resided out here was even more difficult to bear now.

Using the railing for support, she carefully set one foot in front of the other, noticing just how far away from the platform below she was now. The trapdoor she only noticed because her gaze was mostly directed down to help her uneven feet strike the right balance. She paused, pondering how strange it was to find a trapdoor up here, then lowered herself to her knees with a tired sigh where her fingers quickly began to examine the area around the hatch. It wasn't primed and as such posed no real danger, yet Meg wanted to see where it led.

In cold light of reason the only logical route would be down to the dock on which she had lain only minutes ago, but if the illusions they had encountered so far had taught her anything it was not to take matters at face value.

Eventually, she located the mechanism that made the hatch drop open and as she gazed down, she was surprised to find a black portcullis that extended lower and lower still. Her eyes flickered from the bottom of the pit that she could hardly make out to the side of the cottage and back again as she weighed her options. The wrong choice could mean wasting valuable time.

Leaning forward as much as she dared to, she squinted into the darkness where she thought to perceive a mere flicker of light. She was just about to push herself up again when voices reached her ear. She could not make out what they were saying but knew that they emanated from inside the pit.

Swallowing down her fear, Meg made up her mind and eased herself down into the abyss. She clung on to the edges of the trapdoor until her legs found footing on one of the bars. The journey was excruciatingly slow as she was all too aware that one wrong step would send her falling down below. Her arms soon began to shake as she was using up her strength quickly to hold herself upright while her feet scrambled to find security. But the lower she got, the more prominent the voices grew which spurred her on to continue. His sounded cold and unrelenting while Christine's only came out in a whispered plea for mercy. She sounded tired and terrified and Meg yearned to give her the re-assurance she so desperately needed.

The room she finally dropped into with a decided lack of grace was so strange it would continue to appear to her in her dreams. The chamber was submerged beneath the lake's surface as a window at the front revealed. It was barely illuminated which was in part due to the black mourning candles that adorned the walls and the muted, melancholy sheen of the water whose steady movement made it look as if it lapped at walls and ceiling. In the centre, elevated on a broad table stood a coffin whose fine white lining of silk proved the only sharp contrast.

To her, it almost appeared to be an altar of death.

Meg's groan of exertion upon impact thankfully went unnoticed and she crouched behind the altar to catch a glimpse of the Opera Ghost. He was lean with an almost skeletal hand which he used to gesture swiftly and elegantly. Had there not been any words at his disposal, that hand surely would have still managed to convey the anguish and fury that resided in his heart. The other, a prosthetic made out of firm metal, hung loosely against his side, the artificial fingers curled into a fist.

He was imposing, she thought, towering above Christine in a manner that made him appear broader than he truly was. And it was the mask that made him seem almost inhuman as it concealed most of his features so well, leaving only peculiar eyes of an amber colour exposed which burned with angry intensity.

Christine, on the other hand, was cowering on the floor still wearing the beautiful white dress that had been made for the role of Aida. Her hair was a tangled mess of curls and her face paler than it had ever been before.

"Now, my dear, you really mustn't despair," spoke the Opera Ghost in a voice that was surely much too beautiful to be used in such an underhanded way, "your fiancé is quite safe. You really can't have expected him to swim all the way to you. That would have been utterly unreasonable."

Meg lowered herself to the ground again and carefully inched around the altar, hoping to find some item she could use as a weapon if the need arose.

"I've told you once before, my dear, Erik keeps his promises."

He sounded quite unhinged and so Meg started to search more frantically. Every inch of the room seemed to be covered with something. Masks of all shapes and sizes, some of them even small enough to fit the measurements of a child, metal limbs cast across the floor, a strange device – a cross between a pushchair and a wheelchair – which leaned discarded in a corner.

"Ah, there they are now!" the Opera Ghost suddenly announced. "My siren has guided them to us."

Meg swallowed down the fear that had begun welling up anew and carefully peeked over the edge of the altar. The window that had previously revealed the depth of the lake now showed a strange, transparent structure of glass that floated ever closer. Parting the water around it with effortless ease was the curvaceous body of a woman who moved through the lake without using either arms or fishtail, simply drifting along, her silver braids trailing behind her in a magnificent train.

The closer the glass container came, the more Meg could make out the unconscious figure of the vicomte and the badly shaken face of the Persian.

"Raoul!" Christine cried out and Meg watched on in shock as she threw herself against the glass window, banging her fists against the unrelenting surface as if she hoped to break the man out of there herself, as if the room and the container were not separated by water.

"You mustn't be impatient, dear," the Opera Ghost mocked her efforts, "he will come around eventually. You'll make sure of that, won't you, Daroga?"

Trying to ignore the frightened faces, Meg ducked behind the altar again, barely managing to stifle a scream when a small horde of what appeared to be insects came scuttling towards her. They all looked like scorpions to her with beady black eyes, glistening bodies and deadly tails. It was only when they altered their course to whizz around in the same exact circle that she realised that they were not real at all, that she was, in fact, looking at finely crafted, minuscule automatons.

Positioned as she was on all fours, she stared at them in astonishment while secretly pondering what a strange place she had fallen into. It was all so wondrous, yet so utterly peculiar and sad at the same time.

On the other side of the room, the Opera Ghost seemed to pry Christine loose from the window as the sounds of a struggle and her angry screams indicated. Knowing that any second now she could be discovered, Meg stretched out her hand towards the shimmering object nestled in midst of the scorpions. A blade, perhaps, that she could use to her advantage.

She shuddered when their little mechanical legs scuttled over her skin and uttered a silent curse when the object remained firmly stuck to the floor. Scooting forward on her knees she tried once again with better leverage but was aghast to find the open-mouthed scream of a faceless child in the shimmering surface of the blade. In fact, it was not a blade at all but the broken shard of a mirror that cruelly reflected a series of drawings that had been fastened onto the ceiling.

All of them seemed to have been done using charcoal and all of them depicted truly despicable and atrocious scenes. The faceless, screaming child was kept behind bars while horrible faces, grimaces of mockery and contempt were swirling around it. Another showed the imposing figure of a person with vast layers of fat that was occasionally broken apart by phallic symbols, black holes or nipples that protruded vulgarly, oozing substances down the flaps of skin.

It wasn't long before Meg had to avert her eyes for the scenes were much too terrible to gawk at and they moved and frightened her in equal measure. Instead, she narrowed her eyes so that the drawings became nothing more than an assortment of blurred lines and used her remaining strength to pry the mirror shard loose from the floor. Armed with it, she shifted closer to the edge of the altar to watch the events unfold. Sooner or later, she'd have to make herself seen.

"There, you see, Christine. He's waking up. Good evening Monsieur de Chagny. We are delighted that you could join us."

The vicomte, still dazed, tumbled forward until his fists, too, encountered the glass wall of his cage.

"Let her go!"

His voice was muted – Meg truly did not understand how they could hear it at all – but his passion and determination remained unbroken.

"Oh, but you see, that's not how it works. You don't just get to demand your share and receive it. No, no," the Opera Ghost rubbed his mismatched hands together and laughed, "those days are gone. Your fate really lies in the hands of _Christine_."

At this he paused and whirled around to face her again, his frock billowing around him majestically.

"Your fiancé has been very brave indeed. He's overcome a great many obstacles to get this far." A pensive look suddenly entered his eyes and he turned towards the glass again. "Though perhaps he has been cheating. Though perhaps he's had some help from a…friend…"

The last word sounded foreign on his tongue, as if he was still deciding whether the Persian was his friend or the vicomte's.

"He looks a little bit bruised, my dear, but otherwise remarkably intact." He hummed to himself and then his voice dropped lower still. "Perhaps not the Sûreté, mmh, Daroga? But the Vicomte? Hell to my doorstep? You must be so proud."

She imagined his lips curling upwards in a sardonic smile.

"Have you, indeed, forgotten that I hold your heart in the palm of my hand?"

Out of the pocket of his frock, he suddenly produced a peculiar object. From her hiding spot, Meg could only make out that it was silver and curved like a dagger, yet looked far too robust and heavy to serve such a purpose.

"Erik, please, cease this madness!" the Persian pleaded, who seemed to have paled even more.

But his state did not appear to affect the Opera Ghost at all.

"Please, Nadir," he hummed in that same, dangerous tone, "this will be much easier if you just stay quiet."

She saw him squeeze the object tighter, hoped for a moment that he felt badly after all, but then the Persian groaned in agony, clutching his chest and she knew that she'd been naïve to think so. Whatever this item was, however it could be possible, it seemed to control the other man's heart.

"Fine, Erik, fine, as you wish," the Persian panted, every word encompassing the agony he must be experiencing, "but let the boy go. Let Christine Daaé go!"

"No, you haven't been listening, Daroga!" the Opera Ghost replied, his voice escalating into thunderous anger with every word he spoke. Then, as if reminding himself that he had an audience, he took a breath, touched a hand to his chest and continued softer,"The choice is no longer mine and we really must proceed. Your time is slowly running out."

It was only then that Meg noticed – and truly only because she was searching for an explanation to his mysterious threat – that the glass container the vicomte and the Persian were trapped in had started to fill with water. It wasn't very much yet, only a small pool that had accumulated around their ankles, but she had no doubt that it wouldn't take long before they were in serious danger.

If she attacked now, would she manage to free Christine? Would the men pitifully drown in that floating torture chamber? Would they all die?

Lost in doubts, the vital seconds ticked by and the window of opportunity closed.

"Now, my dear, it's really quite simple," the Opera Ghost proceeded, "you must choose to turn the grasshopper or the scorpion."

His footsteps drew dangerously close and Meg swiftly pressed herself against the podium to hide from sight. The footsteps paused, then sounded again, drawing further away this time. Still, she waited another beat or two before risking a glance.

Both animal models were much larger than those of the scorpions that continued to whizz nearby. The grasshopper possessed a thin body that shimmered in an almost emerald hue in the dim light of the mourning candles, its eyes deceptively kind. The scorpion, much like its smaller relatives, was imposing and black with a tail that was angrily poised to attack.

Both objects had one thing in common: a trigger button, plainly exposed on the underside of their body.

"Touch the scorpion, Christine, and you promise to be my wife. The Vicomte will be freed and the lake will be drained once more. Choose the grasshopper, however, and you condemn all of us to misery!"

He turned away from her then, from her and her hiccuped sob, as if he could not bear to face the consequences of his actions.

On the other side, the vicomte had started banging his fists against the glass again.

"You monster!" he yelled. "That is not an honest choice!"

"Honest? _Honest_?" bellowed the Opera Ghost. "There is no honesty in this world! No kindness! No compassion! Oh, perhaps for a man like you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he spat out with contempt, "but with a face like _this_ ," he paused anew to rip the mask away that had concealed his features, "blackmail and illusion are your only friends."

Meg felt herself tremble although she had not seen the face that had been so cruelly revealed. But there was something in the manner it had been done that felt like an act of violence.

"Her love will only be an illusion,too," Raoul bravely proceeded, although he also looked somewhat shaken, "you will have broken everything that was once real about it."

"Your concern is touching," Erik remarked viciously, "and now, Daroga, I advise you to ensure the vicomte's silence. You both may wish to preserve air. Christine has not been known to make decisions swiftly."

And as if to emphasise his point, he squeezed the button on the silver dagger once more which had the Persian sinking to his knees in agony, only capable of offering a pleading look to his companion.

The quiet that followed was truly more terrifying than anything else that had transpired thus far. It was only occasionally interrupted by Christine's soft sobs and the heavy footsteps of the Opera Ghost as he began to prowl up and down, clearly suffering just as desperately as everyone else in his lair.

"Make your choice, Christine," he at last hissed, "bear to look at this face or condemn us all!"

The water in the torture chamber had already reached the men's hips.

The moment Christine finally chose to meet the Opera Ghost's eyes was charged with some inexplicable emotion, and it was with considerable grace that she rose to her feet. She was smaller than him, barely reaching his shoulders, her pale face streaked with tears.

"I have gazed upon your face before, Erik," she answered evenly and it was then that Meg caught her first glimpse of the visage that was mangled beyond recognition.

Her breath got caught in her throat, but it was the sadness that resided in the depth of those amber orbs that was responsible.

"I have gazed upon it before without fear and by my own choice."

She took another step forward and it seemed for a moment as if he suddenly yearned to back away.

"It no longer frightens me, Erik. Can't you see?"

But he could not or would not acknowledge the plea that so poignantly resided in her words. Backed into a corner for which only he himself was responsible, he clung on to the only piece of armour that remained. His pride.

"Make your choice!" he repeated icily.

Once again, Meg steeled herself to attack but found herself frozen to the spot when Christine bridged the final distance between her and the Opera Ghost and clasped his face in her small hands.

They both seemed to be trembling as they kissed, both of them lost in the world and in each other in equal measure. His arms clumsily wrapped around her body, bringing her closer as he relished in affection he never seemed to have received before, as if he did not quite dare to believe that she was truly there, and when he drew away for air, it was her who reached up once more with searching fingers, bringing him back to that one moment that clung suspended in time.


	37. Loire Valley, 1884

_Epilogue: Loire Valley_

_1884_

 

The cottage was nestled in the sloping green hills of Loire Valley. It was small and cosy and light with uneven stone work that formed the exterior. On the inside, it was stuffed full with bookcases and mismatched furniture which looked as if it had been randomly assembled and solely acquired for the function it fulfilled.

Still, Christine Daaé was content with what she had. She enjoyed the feeling of safety it gave her to be surrounded by her own things, all of which she had picked out herself, if also necessity had forced some urgency upon her. She revered the silence and tranquillity that permeated every part of her day. The distance to Paris had been good for her and the nature – far away from the dirt and noise of the city – that lay outside her doorstep had proven an excellent remedy. Which was not to say that the trauma of the past no longer haunted her. As a matter of fact, it was perhaps a testament to that very trauma that she cherished the vastness of nature so deeply, as darkness and confined spaces not only continued to haunt her dreams but also evoked a very real sense of panic in her everyday life.

That's why on this day, as on most days of summer, the door to the cottage stood wide open, and it was through that open door that a familiar voice drifted to Christine who was reclining comfortably on a well-worn sofa, a light blanket slung around her shoulders.

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Daaé."

A smile spread across her face even as her eyes were still taking in the last lines of the book that was propped up against her knees.

"And the same to you, Madame le Baroness," she answered at last with a coquettish twitch of the lip.

The blonde hair and kind brown eyes of the woman in the doorway were the same as they had been upon their first meeting at the _Palais Garnier_ , as was the pristine prosthetic upon which most of her weight was resting, yet the face showed how their shared ordeal had aged her.

A gentle frown furrowed Christine's brows as she put the book aside to examine her friend closely. Perhaps today even more so than usual she detected a tiredness and nervous disposition that even the confident smile could not disguise.

They did not often speak about the final performance of _Aida_ that had cost so many their lives, or about the events that had transpired deep in the bowels of the opera house. They both treated each other's independence and freedom of choice with great respect. Besides, words were not always necessary to convey the deeper understanding they had for each other.

Meg had shown herself to be trustworthy, reliable, generous and brave and Christine had proven – to herself, more so than to the two men who had vied for her affections – to be steadfast and robust. She had suffered and shed innumerable tears, certainly, but they were a sign of her strength – for that she needed no re-assurance.

But she did wonder from time to time how Meg really coped with it all as she was – however involuntary – confronted with the past more often than Christine. Having married the baron after an extended period of courtship, it was inevitable that she'd cross paths with Raoul as they now moved in similar circles. And although she was certain that neither one of her friends would place pressure on the other, Christine imagined these meetings to be highly uncomfortable.

It had not been long after the events at the opera house that she had given Raoul the answer he had dreaded to hear. She was not ready to be married, not until she had discovered for herself where and what her role would be in the world. He'd accepted her decision with quiet dignity and kindness and disappeared from her life to lick his wounds. Perhaps Erik's assumption about their engagement – no doubt taken from the ring she'd worn on a chain around her neck beneath the pendant – had given him hope, a hope that had now cruelly been crushed. At any rate, she could not blame him but wished that in future he'd come to be a part of her life again. Little did she know that the cottage she now called her home had not been generously paid for by the baron, but by the vicomte himself.

"Come in and help yourself to some refreshments," Christine said, rising to her feet to take her friend by the hands, "the ride must have tired you out."

"Oh, I did not ride here on horseback today," Meg answered, breaking into a chuckle that was much more reminiscent of her mischievous nature, "I borrowed Pierre's automobile."

Hence the goggles on your head, Christine thought quietly, gesturing to the sofa once more.

"He'll be terribly cross with you, you know?" she then remarked out loud, taking quick strides to a nearby cabinet to retrieve a carafe of juice and a glass.

"Possibly, but only for a moment. He loves me too much to stay angry for long."

"How lucky you are," Christine smiled, extending the beverage, and there was nothing but genuine affection in her tone.

She often thought back to the moment she'd discovered that she had not been alone with Erik in that terrible room beneath the water's surface. How Meg had emerged from behind that dreadful coffin, bruised and exhausted but as determined and gentle as ever. It had only been her presence that had enabled her to leave, without her, she would not have found it within herself to abandon him.

Christine often tried not to think about him, her fallen, broken mentor who'd remained an enigma even until the very last moment. How horribly he had frightened her, how she had loathed him when she'd discovered Raoul and the poor Persian trapped in that hateful torture chamber. How she had pitied and felt for him as they had clung to each other in that desperate kiss. She had not dared believe it possible, but he had unravelled in front of her very eyes then until nothing remained but a shattered, lost boy starving for kindness. All murderous intent gone, she doubted that he remembered where or who he was.

Perhaps it was Meg's sudden appearance that had brought him back, for he had suddenly stiffened and assumed the gentlemanly posture she had encountered before.

"You must leave this place, Christine," he had whispered, amending once his eyes had slipped across Meg and then the men who were up till their necks in water, "you all must leave."

And suddenly he was no longer a boy but an old tired man who crossed the room with infinite effort to touch a lever that propelled the chamber out of the water, draining it in process. Only capable of producing silent tears, she had accepted Meg's arm for support and followed his tall figure as he guided them back up to the docks of his peculiar house. There, she'd fallen into the arms of Raoul who was kneeling drenched and weary on the floor, shaking with fear and exhaustion alike.

"I trust you'll find the strength to row back to shore?" Erik had addressed him suddenly, although his eyes never left her.

She could feel his gaze on her lips, her neck, her hands, as if he was trying to commit it all to memory.

"Yes," Raoul had pressed out with some difficulty.

She knew he was still grappling with the desire to fight the man who had caused all this, but he was too smart to ignore the invitation extended to them. He'd come to rescue her, after all, and he would see it through until the end.

"And once there, I will lead the way," Meg had assured him confidently, producing the pendant from the confines of her dress.

"And once you are married, Monsieur de Chagny, you will look after her? Provide for her? Do you promise me that?"

Erik's insistence had caused fresh tears to emerge, the salt of which washed away the last taste of him on her lips.

"I promise," Raoul had repeated, righting himself with her help.

Together, they'd struggled towards the gondola that waited for them innocently in the water as if it had been there the entire time. It was there that Christine caught the final glimpse of the man who'd called himself the opera ghost. Leaning on the Persian – the poor, loyal soul who'd involuntarily found himself at the heart of yet another tragedy – he was making his way back up to his cottage where the blue-eyed cat called Ayesha eagerly awaited him, as if wishing to re-assure him of her continued presence.

No matter how often she reluctantly revisited these last moments, she was always left with more questions than answers.

How had Erik disposed of Piangi's body once he had trapped her in that terrible room?

How had Piangi come upon her letter in the first place?

How could the beautiful silver siren have sung with her voice?

And how did the daroga manage to find forgiveness time and time again?

But perhaps there was a certain beauty to not knowing, a mystery that allowed room for imagination.

"Are you alright?" Meg asked and Christine suddenly realised that she had been silent for too long.

She understood now where Erik had gone when he had disappeared before her very eyes. The past had a certain pull to it that was difficult to resist.

"Yes, my dear," she answered, reaching across the sofa to cradle her hands in hers, "quite alright. You know me, always with my head in the clouds. But what about you? You seem pale. Did the automobile ride not suit you?"

The blonde managed a gentle but surprisingly tearful smile and at last extracted a newspaper clipping from her purse.

"This was delivered today," she began carefully, giving her hand a squeeze before passing it over, "and I thought you should see it."

Christine's stomach at once grew coiled tight with tension and it was with infinite sadness and some relief that her eyes finally took in the simple message that had been printed by _Le Figaro: Erik is dead._

 

 


End file.
